A La Fin Du Monde
by ScopesMonkey
Summary: Mycroft becomes the bearer of some very bad news. Rated for minor character death.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** This is from a request from **Scribblez**, and it dovetailed nicely with an idea I was already working on, only now it's way better. The title translates to "At the end of the world". Please enjoy, as always. I do not own, nor do I profit from.

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><p>"This is the most foul thing I've ever eaten," Sherlock protested, gesturing at the basket of fish and chips in front of them on the small, high bar table, but invalidating his argument by doing so while holding two of said chips between his fingers.<p>

"I thought you only stored important information in that hard drive of yours," John replied with a grin, helping himself to some of the chips, which were really not that bad: hot and crispy and salty and that was all he really looked for in chips standards. He complemented it with a draught of beer and Sherlock wrinkled his nose at John's apparent lack of sophistication.

"I do," he said in response to John's comment. "And I would certainly remember if I'd ever eaten anything more foul."

"Except you're still eating it," John pointed out, then helped himself to some of the fried fish that accompanied the chips, breaking off a piece and waving it half-accusingly at Sherlock. "So it can't be that bad."

"It's terrible," Sherlock said, snatching the piece of fish from John's fingers and popping it in his mouth. "However, in the interests of science, I cannot accurately dismiss all of this as terrible simply because I've sampled some of it. That would be irresponsible of me, as well as potentially inaccurate."

"To science, then," John said, lifting his glass. Sherlock clinked his own glass – gin and tonic – against John's.

"Indeed," he said.

John grinned, taking another long sip of his beer. Around them, it was fairly noisy, so their conversation was lost to anyone but themselves, precisely the way John liked it. Behind them, a group of university-aged people were playing some pub game, shouting with elation or groaning in defeat with every correct and incorrect answer. But there was more laughter than dismay, and people were calling out answers that sounded implausible even to John, who was not particularly listening.

"Oh, come now!" Sherlock sighed. "No, the answer isn't 'probably thirty', it's seven! All mammals have the same amount of cervical vertebrae, regardless of the length of their necks, even gira – mmph!"

He was cut off when John shut him up with a kiss. He chuckled into this when the detective's eyes widened in surprised, then relaxed when Sherlock gave an approving sigh.

"Play nice with the drunk kiddies, Sherlock," John admonished, pulling away.

"I don't know, John, I really don't. We should form a team and take them on."

"We'd walk all over them," John said, arching an eyebrow.

"Then we should be sure to play for money," Sherlock contemplated.

John laughed, sitting back. Sherlock grinned at him, and it seemed remarkable to see his husband relaxed while not on a case and not immediately following sex. John knew there would be some of that later – hopefully a little more than just some – and he was looking forward to it. More so when Sherlock oh-so-_not-at-all-_absently put a hand on John's thigh, tracing his fingertips up and down slowly, not quite going too far.

"Shameless," John muttered under his breath.

"Absolutely," Sherlock agreed with a wicked grin. John rolled his eyes, lacing his fingers through Sherlock's, effectively stopping the assault, or at least temporarily postponing it.

But right now, it was more than enough to be out with a Sherlock who was relaxed and happy and not on a case and not thinking about how he wasn't on a case. He'd just finished one the previous day, some ridiculous affair involving a staged suicide and an elaborately grieving widow who, it turned out, had several life insurance policies on her now-late husband as well as a young lover who had been posing as her concerned nephew. John thought perhaps she'd taken her ruse from daytime soaps and made a point to ask Mrs. Hudson if anything like that had been on EastEnders lately, because it would prove his theory quite nicely.

Someone squeezed past them and John leaned toward Sherlock to get out of the young woman's way, not wanting to wear the beers she was carrying in either hand down the front of his shirt. Sherlock took advantage of this to nip at John's ear and the doctor had to send a severe glance the detective's way, although this was serious undermined when Sherlock murmured:

"_Je t'adore,_" in a low, rumbly voice. John felt a shudder run through him but repressed it, raising his eyebrows, knowing the heat in his cheeks would be visible to Sherlock, if to no one else.

Sherlock gave him a light, quick kiss and sat back, sipping his drink again. John rolled his eyes, taking a long draught of his beer to regain some equilibrium; Sherlock knew French was a good way to undo John. Not that the doctor had much idea what was being said, because his French was rudimentary at best, and most of the words he did recognize were not words he'd use in polite conversation.

"We'll go home soon," John promised.

"No," Sherlock contradicted. "I'm having fun."

He glanced about with dancing grey eyes and John shook his head, a smile playing on his lips. But he was enjoying himself, too, so it was hard to argue. Inside the pub, it was quite warm, with low lighting, but outside it was just as temperate, the late May weather not just hinting at the summer to come, but announcing with loudly, enthusiastically. John was glad they had an air conditioning unit, because it promised to be a stifling summer and the flat would be intolerable without it.

John polished off some more chips and divided the last piece of fish fairly evenly, noting that Sherlock took the slightly larger piece, despite his assertions that the food was terrible. John knew it wasn't; they came here often enough, but it was pub food, and, in the way of all pub food, was greasy and heavy and utterly perfect.

A frown twitched across Sherlock's face suddenly and he fished his phone from his pocket. John made a face, hoping it wasn't Lestrade, especially so soon, especially before they had a chance to go home and get in at least one good shag, but Sherlock just shook his head, slipping the phone back into his pocket.

"Mycroft," he said.

"You should answer it," John replied.

"No, John!" Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose in distaste. "He'll only have some tedious chore for me. You know how his cases are."

_Oh yes, _John thought. _Find some stolen top secret missile plans and don't let them fall into a mad psychopath's hands. Help me locate a missing child. Incidentally, did I mention he's my son? Absolutely tedious, all of it._

Sherlock gave him one of those knowing looks that told John he may as well have said all of that out loud, down to the fine details, and John sighed, acting put upon. Sherlock was about to say something when he frowned again, pulling out his phone.

"Really," he sighed, hitting the ignore button again and returning it to his pocket. "He's nothing if not persistent."

"Hmm," John agreed, then nearly jumped when his own phone buzzed. He really needed to take if off of vibrate if he was going to keep it in his pocket, because it always startled him. He worked it out, not at all surprised to see that it was his brother-in-law.

"Don't answer it!" Sherlock said, covering John's hand with his own.

"No, I'm not going to," John said. "I'm shutting it off."

Sherlock gave him a broad, devious grin and fiddled with his phone a minute, then did the same. John was impressed; he'd never seen Sherlock do that for anyone but him, and it was still a very rare event. It had happened a few times when they were otherwise occupied and either Lestrade or Mycroft was trying to reach the consulting detective, and was usually accompanied by loud cursing on Sherlock's part for being distracted, followed by the phone being pitched across the bedroom or whatever room they were in. Sherlock was at least good at getting it to land somewhere soft, so it wouldn't break, say in a pile of clothing they'd left on the floor in a hurry.

And, because he was a sentimental twit who just wouldn't own up, he shut it off on their anniversaries and on John's birthday. This had necessitated that John do the same, because both the DI and Sherlock's brother would just resort to calling John if they couldn't get a hold of Sherlock within their desired time frames. For Lestrade, this could be slightly longer, on the order of about half an hour. For Mycroft, it was about half a minute.

_But not tonight_, John thought and gave Sherlock a quick grin, receiving a beaming look in return. Behind him, the pub quiz game seemed to move into a new round and somehow got louder. John scooted his chair closer to Sherlock, who wrapped an arm around John, resting it on the top of the back of the chair. He stroked John's back absently, lightly, without really paying attention to it, or at least it looked that way to John. Sherlock was probably aware of the fabric of his shirt, when it had been washed and pressed, and the involuntary twitch of John's muscles at the contact. He had taken up doing this in pubs on some case years ago, John couldn't really remember, although if he'd asked, Sherlock probably would have told him. John may have even blogged about it.

He took another sip of his beer and glanced around. The pub was fairly full, which meant Sherlock wasn't bored, wasn't lacking people to analyze, and it was an interesting mix of ages, stretching from the university-aged kids to two business men in their fifties at the bar, their suit jackets undone and ties loosened, having some restrained yet impassioned discussion about something, with stereotypical martinis to boot.

"What are they talking about?" John asked, nodding in that direction. Sherlock couldn't read lips – as far as John knew anyway – but he could read body language.

"Hmm, business, something about a merger, I'd guess," he said. "Boring."

"That _is_ boring," John agreed.

"I'm more interested in the young man beside them, the one with the blond girl."

John focused on the young couple, briefly. The woman was sitting facing the bar, the man slightly angled in his chair to face her – or to face them, John noted. It was a bit odd. He made sure not to meet the man's eyes and wondered what was going on. One of Mycroft's people? If so, where did he get all of them? Was there some sort of supply company? And hadn't he promised years ago to let up on the surveillance?

"No, I don't think so," Sherlock replied to his unspoken question, but probably the first one. "He's been looking at you all evening."

John almost choked on his beer and shot Sherlock a dirty look when the detective grinned and leaned over, kissing him again.

"And so you, what? Want to make him jealous?" John asked when Sherlock broke the kiss.

"He can be jealous all he wants," Sherlock said lightly. "He can't have you."

"He's probably checking _you_ out anyway," John commented.

"No, I'm not his type," Sherlock said in that assured way of his that told John he was completely certain about his analysis. "Too pale and aloof-looking. You, on the other hand, look warm and approachable and trustworthy."

"Well, you're right about you not being trustworthy," John replied.

Sherlock gave a displeased snort.

"That was clearly _not_ what I said, John, and–" he stopped then, eyes darting over John's shoulder, expression darkening and John twisted immediately in his seat to see what the problem was.

"Damn, damn, damn, he actually tracked us down?" Sherlock hissed. John repressed a groan when he saw his brother-in-law moving assuredly through the crowd, looking entirely out of place but somehow not at all being hindered by the people around him, who seemed to move instinctively out of his way.

"We could run," John suggested under his breath.

"He'll have the back entrance watched," Sherlock replied in an equally low voice. "Blast, what the hell does he want? Hello, Mycroft, so nice of you to join us."

John noted the angry look on Mycroft's face – it would be hard not to, since it was directed at both of them quite clearly, and he was making no pains to hide it. But something made John uneasy, something he couldn't put his finger on.

If Sherlock had noted it, he was ignoring it.

"You weren't answering your phone," Mycroft snapped at his brother.

"Quite right," Sherlock agreed. "Can't you take a hint? I'm enjoying the world's most disgusting food and John's company. I'd offer you some – the food that is, not John's company – but it would thwart your perpetual diet. Don't be tedious, whatever it is, it can wait until tomorrow."

"No, Sherlock, it can't," Mycroft said, his voice low, his eyes flashing. John felt himself stiffen more, something flashing down his spine, almost painfully, making his left shoulder hurt.

"I'm busy," Sherlock said, gesturing to the remaining chips, then at the pub around them. "Go _away_, Mycroft."

"You both need to come with me. Now."

Sherlock narrowed his own eyes in response.

"I don't think so," he replied.

Mycroft set his jaw, meeting his brother's gaze straight on, and now even Sherlock's expression changed the barest amount, moving from completely annoyed to mostly annoyed with a hint of concern.

"It's Mum, Sherlock," Mycroft said. "She's had a stroke. She's dead."


	2. Chapter 2

There was a difference between being dead and being brain dead. The distinction was subtle, and mostly technological, since until sometime within the last century, dead was simply dead, and a person – a body – could not have been kept alive indefinitely on machinery. It seemed to provide false hope, as if to say _look, she's still breathing, her heart is still beating_, as though that meant anything.

To die, in the mind, was well and truly death. What use was a body that only pumped blood and consumed oxygen without any awareness, without any hope of regaining consciousness, without possibility of relighting the spark that made a body into a human being?

Well, of course, the machines supplying oxygen and keeping the blood moving kept the organs alive, which was vital for transplant. And then there was some sentimental nonsense about saying good-bye.

_There's no one left to hear_, Sherlock thought.

There had been a trip back to the flat, packing bags, then a longer car ride north into Buckinghamshire. This had not passed in as much silence as Sherlock would have liked, because Mycroft was filling them in and John was asking some medical questions and it was all so _pointless_. Why did people have to speak when there was nothing to say? He'd watched out the window, in the growing darkness as England flitted by, his mind automatically cataloguing details that were, for once, unimportant.

London fell away first, and then its suburbs, yielding to the rolling hills, the farms, the hedges, the thatch-roofed houses and sprawling manors that defined where Sherlock and Mycroft had grown up, until they'd both gone away to school. Where they'd come for the longer school holidays and for summers, when summers were not spent in other parts of Europe – France, Italy, Greece, Spain. Despite the Germanic love of order and their parents' reserved British attitudes, they had never once travelled to Germany when Sherlock had been young. He'd asked, and then negotiated, then wheedled, but they had not budged, for whatever vague but set reasons they had.

When he'd been fourteen, he'd purchased himself a plane ticket and gone, alone, knowing no one, speaking only snatches of phrases – _Guten Tag _(hello), _Kannst du mir helfen?_ (can you help me?) _Wo ist der Bahnhof? _(where is the train station?). Somehow, he'd managed to make it three entire days, the best of his young life up until that point, and he'd been so assured, so enthused, that no one questioned an adolescent English boy travelling in fairly newly reunited Germany at the time.

Then Mycroft had been sent to round him up – the indignity. But his parents hadn't said anything reproving, no. His mother had enquired if he'd enjoyed his trip. His father had seemed surprised to see him back – or perhaps surprised Sherlock had even been gone. It may be that Mycroft had sent himself to round up his errant younger brother.

He wondered why he remembered that, during the car trip. Certainly it wasn't important.

There had been no time to stop at the house, which made no sense whatsoever, because what was there but time when machines were dictating life, when the body's breathing was being controlled from outside and there was nothing to hurry for, because nothing would change? But they'd gone straight to the hospital, to the ICU unit, and Sherlock knew that John did not want to be there, that he hated ICU units even now, years after the crash, with Moriarty long dead and nothing but some twinges remaining in Sherlock's left leg when the weather got bad too fast or he hadn't slept enough for too long. The man who was John overrode the doctor in all aspects of this, and he couldn't rationalize away the dislike, despite his medical degree, despite all of his experience.

Sherlock disliked it for different reasons. He could barely stand the tense silence, the anxieties that actually felt physically heavy, like the air was thicker, made of some substance that wasn't gas, that required more effort to walk through, to breathe in. He hated that everything was so utterly silent, not in a way that was conducive to thinking or even recovery. It was as though everyone was waiting with baited breath, hoping against hope, but anticipating the worst.

Well.

No need for them to do so. The worst had already happened.

Their father was already there, formal in a suit, cool, composed, reserved, precisely how he was every day of his life. The nurses didn't want to admit all of them at once, but Mycroft dispense of this immediately and without fuss, which was annoying to Sherlock.

And there was Sibyl, half-buried under a mess of machinery, a ventilator, monitors of all kinds, and crisp, white hospital sheets, almost the same shade as her white hair, the same colour Sherlock's hair would turn, had already threatened to start, but only a strand here and there that was easily dealt with.

_No_, he thought vaguely, _That's not her. There's no more her._

Somehow, that thought was oddly comforting when looking at the body on the gurney, which seemed dwarfed by and lost in the equipment that was sustaining something that passed as life. John was casting an expert eye over the monitors, assessing, because it was easy for him to do this, habit, reflex. There were things he could see in the readouts that even Sherlock could not, because John spoke the language of medicine so much better, of course.

No need to ask what had happened: Mycroft had told them, and it was simple and straightforward. She'd had a stroke, William had found her unconscious in their rooms, had her rushed to the hospital, but the stroke had been too severe and had left her brain dead. She was being kept alive until family could arrive, and now they were here.

Sherlock knew his mother would have preferred it this way, rather than be trapped in a cage that had been her body, unable to move or communicate properly, taking time and pains to recover, if recovery were possible at all. Never being quite the same, most likely. When he thought of her, he always thought of her as brilliant and vibrant, but also sometimes distant. Like a star. Whatever restraint and coolness she'd always shown had not entirely hid the brightness of her mind, even when she downplayed it, made it seem inconsequential. He'd never understood that.

"Has she signed her organ donor card, or do we have to make this decision for her?" he asked, uncertain whom he was asking, his father or his brother. A flash of distaste touched William's features at that, only around the edges of his lips and eyes; he kept his expression in schooled remoteness otherwise. Mycroft looked annoyed and almost angry. John looked surprised and cast him a reprimanding glare, which made no sense.

Out of everything that needed to be addressed, this was the most pressing question. Sherlock had no experience with organ donation, of course, but what he understood from John was this: there were never enough donors, never enough organs, and people died all the time while waiting for the one thing that could save their lives. While they stood round the bedside of a woman who was no longer there, there were people who could be given back that opportunity, entire families who could be kept whole, if this one did not delay.

"It's the only practical decision," Sherlock said. "She's not using them anymore."

His father turned his dark eyes away, as though he could simply avoid the unpleasantness of the conversation by refusing to acknowledge it, which was fairly standard, for him. He stood beside Sibyl's bed, opposite Sherlock, one of the few people Sherlock knew who was of a height with him. Mycroft stood near the foot of the bed and John beside Sherlock, but half a step away, as though getting too close now, in this company, made him uncomfortable.

"Well?" Sherlock snapped at Mycroft.

"We need at least a little time to say good-bye," his brother said, in that tone that suggested he thought Sherlock was doing a poor job of being a decent human being. But when had that ever mattered? And, indeed, how did it make anyone a decent human being to ignore the others who were dying while waiting for something Sibyl was no longer using?

"Then I'll go arrange it," Sherlock sighed.

"No," William said suddenly, speaking for the first time, dark eyes moving back, smoothly, to his youngest son. Youngest of four, Sherlock knew, even if he wasn't supposed to know that there had been two who hadn't survived. John had never mentioned this but probably because John thought Sherlock knew. Which he did.

This threatened to become complicated in his mind and he stopped thinking about it.

"I'll do it," his father said, speaking calmly, almost disinterested, as though he were discussing some instruction to give to the manor staff, some inconsequential thing. "I've been here since we arrived. You two do what you must."

This surprised Sherlock somewhat but his father didn't notice or didn't acknowledge it, because he was doing what needed to be done. Nothing more or less. Typical. But it made sense; William had power of attorney, and neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had any say in that regard - although Sherlock strongly suspected his brother could arrange whatever he wanted, should he choose to do so.

Without another word, without any indication this troubled him, William left the curtained-off space, his shoes clicking sharply on the hard floor marked with years or generations of scratches and scuffs from the movement of gurneys and IV stands and other equipment.

When he was gone, footsteps receding past the nurses' station, John touched Sherlock's arm.

"Come on," he said quietly and didn't look back, leaving Sherlock to follow without any question that he would. Sherlock did so, wondering when John had started to be able to do that, when he had realized he could. He followed his husband into a small waiting room which was unoccupied but for the two of them and John sank into a chair, looking at him.

"Let Mycroft say good-bye and then you can," John said.

Sherlock stayed standing and gave him a puzzled look.

"I don't need to say good-bye, John. She's not there. She can't hear me. It would be pointless."

At this, John frowned, then sighed, his shoulders rising and falling abruptly and Sherlock was distracted by the concern that this might cause his left shoulder to ache or hurt. Then he wondered why – it was not a jarring action.

"Well, not for her, for you," John offered.

Sherlock's frown deepened.

"I don't need to do that," he replied.

John gave him a long look, one that searched him, looking for something.

"Maybe not right now," John agreed. "But you'll need to know, one day, that you did it."

Sherlock wanted to ask why, and how John could possibly know that about the future, but sensed it would start a row, and did not want to get drawn into that. He disliked acquiescing with silence, but it was less trouble that way, because John could be unbelievably stubborn about his opinions. So he sat down opposite his husband, crossed his legs, and waited in the unnatural and oppressive silence, the tick of the clock on the wall the only disruption. It was irritating, a steady metronome of their lives slipping past, and Sherlock was suddenly annoyed that he had to spend time _here_, wasting moments of his life unnecessarily. Because his mother was dead, and him sitting in the hospital was not going to change that.

Mycroft came in after some minutes and John gave Sherlock a pointed look. His eyes asked if Sherlock wanted John to accompany him, but Sherlock shook his head no and left the room, because it was simply easier, would get things over with quicker, than if he protested and delayed. He stepped back into the curtained-off area and looked at his mother's body, still breathing artificially, her skin still pink, oxygenated by the blood her heart kept pumping through her arteries and veins. He wondered if they'd take what blood they could as well, because certainly it would also come in handy.

Did people actually say things in this sort of situation? If so, what? What was the point? She couldn't hear him; she was well past that. Was it to alleviate feelings of guilt or loss? He felt no guilt and of course he felt loss, but talking inanely wasn't about to change that. He had nothing he needed to say to her that he hadn't said before she'd died. Did people try and bridge gaps that had existed in life? How? Why? Surely that sort of thing needed to be done when both parties were alive and conscious. Did they proclaim love? Sherlock loved his mother, but she knew that. And he knew she'd loved him. That was not in question, that was not doubted. He despised it when people espoused all sorts of emotional issues with their mothers, blaming entire lifetimes worth of problems on complicated maternal-child relationships. His mother had been who she was, and that was that. He was who he was, and that was also that.

It wasn't complicated.

_Well_, he thought. Who cared about appearances in this sort of situation? Was there some sort of scorecard people kept about how well you said good-bye to someone you loved? If so, that was stupid.

He leaned over and kissed her forehead, lightly, because it did seem like a fitting farewell, if not for her then for him. But he said nothing, because there was nothing to say. She couldn't hear him and he didn't need to speak his own thoughts out loud to know them. She'd had a stroke. She was dead. She was gone.

That was simple.

And now, others would live because of her, and _that_ was important. Sherlock wondered if John would be surprised that he thought this. But it was important, and it was practical, and it was possible. If her life was over, there was no need to waste those of others needlessly.

He left the ICU ward again and returned to the waiting room to do what it was designed for – wait.


	3. Chapter 3

John found him outside in the middle of the night, smoking a cigarette.

They had been installed in the same set of rooms they always were the handful of times they'd been there, and for some reason, John was continually surprised by this. Sherlock didn't understand why John thought they'd ever be put in the room that Sherlock had had as a child. That was just a bedroom, of course. They were adults now, and married, and this more than merited a set of rooms with a separate bedroom, a sitting area, and a private bathroom. Sherlock didn't have any particular attachment to staying in the room in which he'd grown up – it was too small now, and not private enough.

Out of habit, he'd swept the small suite for bugs or cameras, because even though Mycroft had promised not to surveil him and John, he had not promised not to monitor the house. Baker Street was off-limits of course – as was all of London, frankly – but Mycroft might have monitoring devices here just as a matter of course.

He was pleased when he found nothing, though. Apparently, their silence on Angela's involvement with Marco De Luca's death was bought at a respectable price for Mycroft. He was taking it seriously.

The terrace was slate flagstones, surrounded by a low brick wall covered in ivy that obscured the actual bricks themselves after several generations. Sherlock liked the simplicity; there were no flowers, no water features, nothing but the plants and the rocks. There was a set of outdoor furniture, as well, handmade, of course, probably purchased by his mother, who had – _who'd had_ – some sort of passion about this, and local artisans and such. Sherlock didn't care, as long as he had somewhere to sit.

"You're not going to yell, are you?" he asked when John sat down opposite him, taking the chair that was slightly closer. For some reason, although there were only two of them, there were three chairs, and Sherlock had always wondered if this was supposed to suggest the possibility of company just dropping in. On a private terrace in a private manor? Besides, who would come out here? Tricia? Sam? No point, since they both lived in London and so did Sherlock and John.

"Do you want me to?" John asked, arching an eyebrow.

Sherlock flicked some ash from the end of the cigarette. In truth, he hadn't smoked as much of it as he could have, and had just let some of it burn off.

"No," he replied.

"No, I'm not anyway," John said. "You just lost your mum, Sherlock. Do you remember how stinking drunk we both got after Harry died?"

"Not especially, no," Sherlock said, and John's lips twitched at this, his eyes gleaming momentarily in the light that spilled from the open terrace doors that led out from their small sitting room. It was chilly, and John was wrapped in one of his jumpers, although Sherlock was in short sleeves and didn't really feel the coolness of the air.

"Me either," John said.

Sherlock suspected he remembered better than John did, because he'd only been drunk – admittedly blind stinking drunk – not in shock from listening to Harry's crash over the phone, dealing with the reality that she'd hit three other people, suffering the upheaval of a sudden and unexpected and very violent end.

He took a drag of the cigarette.

"You didn't let me have one when I shot Moriarty and Sam died," he pointed out.

"Sam didn't die," John replied.

"We didn't know that."

"You did."

Sherlock grunted; that was actually true. He hadn't known in terms of having actual evidence, but he'd deduced it correctly from the way Sam had fallen, turning it into a dive, and the fact that they had not found his body, but had found Moriarty's within two hours.

"I still shot Moriarty," Sherlock said.

"This is different," John said simply.

He didn't know why, but part of him wanted to start a row with John. It made no sense – he despised fighting with John, it was at once tedious and painful, but something inside of him itched for a confrontation right now.

He tried to ignore it, taking another drag on the cigarette. He had only the one, having got it from one of the staff, but vaguely wished for more, for a whole pack.

"Besides, I can hardly stop you," John said.

Sherlock was surprised to hear this.

"Yes, you could," he said, tapping some of the ash off.

John raised an eyebrow.

"How?" he asked.

Sherlock frowned, narrowing his eyes somewhat, puzzled.

"You could leave."

"I'm not going to leave you because you're having a cigarette, Sherlock."

"But if I kept at it?"

"Not then, either."

"But you don't like it."

"No, I don't," John agreed.

_And so I won't do it,_ Sherlock realized. This made him unreasonably annoyed – surely having John's dislike of cigarettes only strengthened his resolve not to smoke? Most of the time anyway. Admittedly, most of the time, his mother didn't die.

Only once.

He took another drag.

Besides, John wouldn't let him do it in the flat, that was for certain.

"I just won't kiss you," John said.

"Ah," Sherlock replied. Now it made sense. He smiled mirthlessly when he thought they could shag without actually kissing. Might diminish the experience somewhat though, if it were permanently the case.

He blew smoke out between his lips and took a last drag, putting out the butt against the flagstones, but conscientiously not leaving it on the ground. Someone would have to clean it up, and this type of laziness was uncalled for and irresponsible.

It had been at once the most exquisite and most disgusting thing he'd ever tasted. He wished he had an entire pack to chain smoke and never wanted to touch another one, ever.

He'd need to buy more patches, which at least didn't taste foul and delectable. Didn't taste of anything at all, of course. He wished he'd thought to bring some with him from London.

He wondered what would happen now. He didn't feel like going inside, didn't feel like doing much of anything. The night was silent and still and Sherlock wished it would remain this way forever, that they weren't speeding toward morning, that things wouldn't have to change. When the sun rose, something would have to be done. A funeral would have to be planned. He knew without being told that Mycroft would take care of that, that his brother would have someone arrange the whole thing, that Sherlock himself would have to do nothing, nor would William. Mycroft enjoyed this sort of thing, this ability to get things done, but it vaguely annoyed Sherlock that strangers would be sorting out the details.

John had left the funeral home do that for Harry, though. Maybe it was just the way these things worked. Sherlock realized he didn't know. For all the dealing with corpses that he did, he had no real idea how they were handled when they were turned back over to their families. It was a bit unsettling.

It struck him that during the entire time he'd known John, he'd only attended two funerals. One had been Harry's, of course, and the other Sam's. So only one really, because Sam had never actually been dead. He hadn't gone to Molly's, although John had wanted him to, and had gone himself. But Sherlock hadn't really known her and couldn't be bothered. It had been years since his grandparents had died, so long since the first one, his father's father, that he barely remembered that funeral.

He tilted his head back and looked up at the stars.

"Want another one?" John asked.

"Yes," Sherlock replied. He was silent for a moment. "Haven't got any though."

John nodded and sat still for a few minutes, then got up and went back inside. Sherlock noted this, but didn't really pay attention; he kept watching the stars, which were of course much brighter out here than in London, since there was so much less light pollution here.

"Here," John said, coming back shortly thereafter and Sherlock raised his head, refocusing. John had a pack extended toward him and Sherlock thought that he had never been quite so surprised by the doctor. He hesitated, then took the package, opening it. There were already a few missing.

"Where did you get this?" he asked.

"One of the staff," John said.

Sherlock gave a dry, mirthless chuckle; he'd got the one he'd had from a staff member as well. Probably the same woman. He wondered when John had got it. Couldn't have been just now, he hadn't been gone long enough.

Sherlock pulled one out and tapped it absently, then put it to his lips and lit it. He took a deep drag, closing his eyes and held it close enough to his face that the smoke could curl up against his skin, into his nostrils.

He smoked three back-to-back, lighting the next one with the end of the preceding one, then opened the pack and methodically broke the rest of them in half, dumping them haphazardly back inside, before extending the package back to John. His husband looked surprised, but Sherlock shook his head.

"Thank you," he said. "Any more will make me ill."

And he wouldn't be able to stop if he kept at it, although he didn't say so. John could probably guess. He had a lifetime of dealing with an addict. Two, really. And he was a doctor. He understood how it worked.

John took the package and rose and went inside. When he returned, he was empty-handed, and this time he'd been gone long enough for Sherlock to know he'd left their rooms. The cigarettes hadn't been disposed of anywhere he'd find them. This was at once a relief and a disappointment.

He wondered what Mycroft would think. He'd probably be dissatisfied with his younger brother, Sherlock thought. Well, he often was, so it was not much of a change. In his overbearing and frustrating way, he probably already knew. Sherlock wondered if he'd be on the receiving end of one of those knowing and disapproving looks. He remembered that expression when Mycroft had rounded him up in Munich.

He wondered why he was subject to so many stern looks from his brother. Why nothing he did ever met with approbation. Going to Germany at the age of fourteen. Having a cigarette – yes, all right, four – after over seven years of not having given into any of the frequent cravings.

He remembered his mother greeting him after Mycroft had brought him home from Munich.

"_Did you enjoy your trip?"_

And she'd kissed him on the forehead, even though he'd already been taller than her and he'd had to bend down for her to do that. And her grey eyes had been bright, knowing, but she hadn't said anything. Not against what he'd done, but not against what Mycroft had done, either.

He felt a twinge in his left leg. And John was struggling to stay awake anyway. What time was it? He had no idea. The sky was beginning to lighten in the east, right along the horizon. Only faintly. He tried to remember when Mycroft had found them in the pub. When the orderlies had taken Sibyl into surgery. When the surgeon had let them all, unscrubbed but hastily wrapped in sterile clothing, into the operating theatre to be there when Sibyl's body finally died.

One-thirteen in the morning.

He did remember that.

"Let's go in," he said, pushing himself to his feet, ignoring the small flash of pain in his lower leg. It wasn't often he felt it anymore, and usually only when he was really short on sleep, so much so that John was already giving him pointed looks. He wondered why it had hurt now. If he were at home, he probably wouldn't have gone to sleep yet, or just.

The horrible pub food and their night out seemed like weeks ago now. Sherlock felt a vague regret that the night hadn't ended the way they'd wanted. That it had ended like this at all.

John rose with him and they both went back inside, closing the terrace doors against the night.

"Go to bed," Sherlock said. "I'm going to shower." He knew that John wouldn't want to curl up next to him smelling of cigarette smoke and wouldn't want the scent clinging to the blankets and the pillowcases. He didn't particularly want this himself.

He went into the bathroom, brushed his teeth for a good five minutes to get the taste out of his mouth, more for John's sake, but also so his mouth wouldn't start to feel stale nor would the lingering taste awaken another craving. Then he showered, somewhat surprised, not entirely, and a bit disappointed that John didn't join him. Sherlock got out and towelled off, then went into the bedroom, fishing his pyjamas out of his bag and pulling them on.

John was still awake, eyes half lidded, fatigue creeping into his features.

Sherlock sighed, climbing into bed beside his husband.

"John. Go to sleep," he repeated.

"I was waiting for you," John replied. Out of habit developed now over years, they curled up together when Sherlock crawled beneath the covers. He snaked an arm around John's waist, waiting for the doctor to fall asleep. John was waiting for him to do the same, but Sherlock had more experience out-waiting John, and, eventually, his husband's breathing deepened and slowed down and some of the tension drained of his muscles. Sherlock stayed curled up against him without moving, listening to his breathing, feeling the beat of John's heart against his own chest, but did not sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

When John woke up, he gave Sherlock a look indicating he knew his husband hadn't slept, but didn't say anything. Sherlock didn't feel tired anyway, although his leg ached occasionally for no good reason. He kept this to himself, though. There was nothing John could do about it, nor would taking anything really help.

"I need to shower," John said, but before he could move from his position in Sherlock's arms, looking up at him with sleep-tinged brown eyes, there was a knock on the door, deferential but not hesitant. John grunted and sat up fully and Sherlock sighed, shifting onto his back and propping himself up against the pillows partway.

"Come in," he said, knowing what it would be.

George, the butler, slid in with a covered tray.

"Breakfast," he said smoothly. "Where shall I put it?"

"In the sitting room," Sherlock answered without really thinking about it. He supposed - vaguely - that he'd have to eat. John had let him get away with smoking and not sleeping, so it was unlikely he'd be allowed to indulge in a third of what John considered his bad habits.

They rose and went into the sitting room, and now the sun was spilling through the French doors that led to the terrace, creating long pools of light that warmed the furniture and the floors. John sat down, shower forgotten for the time being, and lifted the lid off of the tray. His brown eyes lit up appreciatively and, although it smelled good, Sherlock felt a stab of irritation.

_He _cooked John's breakfast.

_Completely irrational_, he told himself sternly, wondering what had prompted this flash of displeasure and why it wouldn't abate when he identified it as being illogical. He didn't cook when they came to visit here, of course. He never had. He knew where the kitchen was but did not know his way around it, nor did he have any desire to learn. That was what they had kitchen staff for.

And there were times at home when John cooked breakfast. If Sherlock was on a case and working too hard to be bothered or remember. Sometimes they went out for breakfast, because John enjoyed doing that occasionally on the weekends.

He made himself forget this annoyance and sit down in one of the wing back chairs with its gently worn upholstery that was nonetheless carefully maintained. It would be replaced when necessary, but replaced properly, maintaining the old fabric and design, speaking to use through generations. Everything would be taken care of by the best of professionals, because it was important to maintain standards.

Sherlock wondered suddenly if his mother's funeral would be taken care of by the best of professionals.

This sudden thought, unexpected and unbidden, made him glad he was already sitting. The severity of it made him angry; how dare his own mind sabotage him like that? It was utterly uncalled for. He had a few choice words for himself, because four cigarettes and a night of no sleep were not enough to do that, even though it had been years since he'd smoked and he slept more since he and John had got together – which the doctor considered a good thing, but Sherlock himself was rather ambivalent about.

He made himself refocus on the food John was passing off to him. He wondered if his husband preferred this, or preferred the food that Sherlock made at home. He suddenly did not want to know, in case he disliked the answer. Thinking about this made him oddly jealous at the _possibility_ that John liked these breakfasts more, and he repressed a growl at himself for being unreasonable.

Sherlock focused on eating even though he was not feeling particularly hungry, and did not try the trick that involved pushing his food about his plate, which he suspected he had learned from Josephine and which didn't actually work. Besides, John was keeping a sharp if concerned eye on him. Refraining from saying anything – _yet_ – although Sherlock knew he would, if given half a reason. John had never been shy about haranguing him about anything – shooting holes in the wall, leaving body parts in the fridge, skipping meals, not sleeping enough, forgetting to buy milk, chasing after mad criminals on his own. And besides, John often knew he'd lose whatever battle he was trying to fight, and much more often, their conversations did not entail either of them seriously complaining about the other's habits.

There seemed to be no end of things that John would get after him about, but when Sherlock thought about it, he couldn't imagine living without it.

_Yes, just try to imagine_, some small part of his brain suggested and Sherlock put his teacup down slightly more quickly than he'd intended, but not hard or suddenly enough to spill any of the hot, sweet liquid over the side into the saucer.

Still, John gave him a look. Sherlock returned this with a practiced one of his own, covering the unintended slight with actually eating some of the toast with which they'd been provided. Grudgingly, he admitted the food was at least passable – not that his family would hire poor cooks – although he told himself what he made for them at the flat was better.

He could not imagine not having John's presence, because it had become so much a part of his life that it _was_ his life. He could neither picture an existence in which he had not met John, nor one in which John was lost to him.

It made him wonder, with a jarring sensation, what his father was thinking.

But no, because his relationship with John was so much different. There was no aloofness there, no sense that they had married simply for the duty – since being two married and childless men fulfilled no sort of traditional duty whatsoever – no sense that their lives were separate entities that happened to entwine in a shared household and two now-grown children.

But he'd never seen them actually be unkind to one another. Indifferent yes, but not in the way that suggested they didn't care. In the way that suggested they were distracted by other things, other concerns, other interests, but still occasionally thought to appreciate the other.

He was uncertain if they'd loved each other – perhaps when they were quite young, and newly wed – but didn't doubt that they'd _liked_ each other.

Perhaps settling for a lifetime of companionship rather than both companionship and romance. His parents were both exceedingly practical people. They may actually have been content with their relationship.

Which was now one-sided. Very suddenly one-sided. Very irrevocably one-sided.

He kept eating, mechanically, to avoid John asking any questions.

But William had always been reasonable and logical and indifferent.

He would survive and adjust and this would pass. It was life. These sorts of things happened. By definition, they must, because there was no life without the assured end of death. The only uncertainty lay in the how, not the if. There was no if.

He made himself finish eating, if only to stave off any comments from John, although the food suddenly tasted of nothing, like cardboard, or at least what Sherlock imagined cardboard would taste like, having never actually tried it.

They showered and dressed and Sherlock realized he had no idea what to do next. Was he waiting for instructions? Was he meant to make a decision? He felt suddenly and keenly at a loss. At home, he would work or spend time with John or go down to the morgue or possibly take on a case, if Lestrade had anything for him.

He tried to remember what John had done after Harry had died.

Slept. A lot more than normal. Cried. But Sherlock suspected the tears were less for his sister and more for the shock, the knowledge that she'd killed three other people. And the frustration of dealing with an alcoholic who had, in her last act, done something incredibly stupid and selfish.

He'd also dealt with the funeral, with the will, with Harry's estate, with her belongings and her flat. Sherlock had to do none of these things for his mother. He supposed there was a will, but had no idea when it would be read, nor what was in it. He wondered who the executor was. His father? Mycroft? He knew it wasn't him.

Thinking about all of this did make him feel tired and he thought he understood, in part, why John had slept so much after Harry had died. It was exhausting just to contemplate. He remembered how angry he himself had been at his sister-in-law, how frustrating it was that the anger was so useless, because it could not be properly directed at her, since she'd died. How heart wrenching it had been to watch John struggle through all of the mundane but necessary details, all of the chores, to watch the exhaustion settle into his features and stay there without receding at all for two extremely long weeks.

He wondered if John was the one worrying about this now.

He hoped not.

He was saved from having to make any decisions about what to do when a knock at the door announced Mycroft's presence and John let the older man in. Sherlock was surprised to see that his brother, despite his perfectly pressed clothing, his outward appearance calm and pulled together, had tiredness and sadness in his grey eyes.

He'd never seen Mycroft look sad before. Not even when David had been abducted. That had been outrage and fear.

John invited Mycroft to sit down, and he did so, moving almost wearily, just a hint of that breaking through his normally composed and detached veneer. Sherlock wondered if his brother had slept and thought not.

Mycroft told them that the funeral was set for three days hence and the will would be read the next day.

"And today?" Sherlock asked.

"Notifying the rest of the family," Mycroft sighed. It would be tedious, Sherlock knew, since they had any number of extended family members on both sides of the family, related by degrees that never made much sense, nor were easily explained. But these people would feel it was their due to know, and so they would be told, and they would come to Buckinghamshire, descending on the house as though they belonged there. Sherlock dreaded this; he knew his aunts and uncles well enough, of course, and his cousins, although none of them had really ever been interested in the others. He was less familiar with the more distant relations and had nothing to say to them, but had a sudden and unshakeable feeling that he would be required to speak with them.

He _hated_ small talk. Not least because he was terrible at it when it pertained to his own life. He had no interest in sharing any personal details nor any interest in learning about these details regarding people he barely knew. Or didn't know at all.

And what was he meant to say when the obligatory "how are you?" question arose? Fine? My mother just died? Thank you for asking?

At least he knew Mycroft would not require his help with the notifications. Cultivating a lack of social awareness was good for something. Many things, actually, because it kept him from so many tedious duties such as this.

"And what will we do?" Sherlock asked calmly, detached, not really caring about the answer.

"Whatever you want, today," Mycroft sighed. "But, at least talk to Father, once."

_Yes_, Sherlock thought, _I can imagine how that will go._

William had never been particularly interested in his children and even less so about talking to either of them about painful, potentially touchy subjects. He'd always avoid those by simply refusing to acknowledge that they existed, which somehow worked well for him. Somehow, events would simply give up in the face of his deliberate disinterest.

Sherlock wondered if William would try this now, as though ignoring Sibyl's death would completely negate it and she would walk back into the house and they would all be left wondering why they had congregated there and why they had imagine she'd died.

Mycroft left and John sighed, leaning back in his chair, watching Sherlock.

"I'm going for a walk," Sherlock said, suddenly realizing that this was what he was going to do, having not intended it.

"Do you want me to come?" John asked.

Sherlock hesitated, torn, but then shook his head; he wanted some silence, some isolation. John gave him a concerned look, but then nodded and pushed himself to his feet. He bent down and kissed Sherlock lightly and Sherlock felt– _something._ A stab of love and fear and need and desire and anger. It was too much, and the combination made no sense, so he was almost relieved, but not quite, when John pulled away.

"I'm going to call Tricia, and Sam," John said then, watching for a reaction.

"Not Sam," Sherlock scowled. "He's in Greece."

"I know he's in Greece," John replied with what Sherlock thought was unnecessary patience. "I don't expect him to come back, and I won't ask him to, but he should know."

Sherlock considered asking why Sam should know, but the patience in John's voice was not strained in a way that told him that his husband could keep up the gentle explanations indefinitely. Sherlock did not want to be pandered to. And he knew John was right; Sam was a friend and should know.

"Have Tricia come," he said, suddenly, surprised at himself.

"I will," John replied.

"But not Jo," Sherlock warned.

"She's too young for a funeral anyway," John agreed.

"No. I'll just not have her anywhere near Mycroft," Sherlock said.

"That, too."

Sherlock nodded and stood, remembering he was going for a walk. He kissed John again, his own action this time, but John surprised him by pulling him into a hug. Sherlock hesitated, then returned it, enjoying simply standing there with John, feeling warm and quiet, for a moment.

"I'll be back soon," he promised.

John gave him almost half a smile.

"I'll be here," the doctor promised in return.

* * *

><p>He ended up at his old bedroom without even realizing he'd been going there, surprised to find himself inside, standing in the middle of the room, which had long ago been stripped of its uniqueness, turned into another bland guest room, no hint remaining that it had once been a small boy's and then a teenage boy's. This had happened years ago, when Sherlock had gone to university, after which his parents had started giving him a guest suite of his own instead, and he had never complained. He preferred it that way, in fact. He was no longer a child, and did not want a child's things and liked the privacy afforded to him in a suite so much more.<p>

He was mildly annoyed that he'd ended up there without even considering it but somehow did not particularly want to leave. It was just a bedroom, he told himself. Everything it had been in the past was only stored in memory now, often uselessly. This wasn't home, and hadn't been for well over two decades now. Home was Baker Street, with John, with the sounds of London outside, with Mrs. Hudson's unannounced visits, with the smells of dinner cooking, sometimes mixed with the smells of John's beer, when he drank one in the evening. Home was the well-used bed, the comfortable furniture, the things that constantly had to be moved to prevent Josephine's curiosity from accidentally destroying them, the cupboards that had be locked against her (even though she would probably find a way around the locks very soon). It was Lestrade barging in on their lives at all hours with cases, John's protests about being dragged into the night, the wind, the rain, the snow.

It was not this empty room that meant nothing, decorated in a bland, accommodating fashion. The walls had been repainted an unremarkable off-white, accented by an unremarkable painting of the moors, the windows framed by unremarkable drapes that were darker than the walls, with pale little swirls of green in some pattern Sherlock couldn't name. The floors were polished hardwood, but the bed sat on a Persian rug, a real one, not those cheap imitations they sold in stores these days. The sheets on the bed were white, crisp, covered by a pale beige duvet. The room hinted of lavender, probably a spray on the sheets, to keep them fresh and to lend a scent of relaxation to any guests.

Not entirely as he remembered it, of course.

"_Mummy, I want to paint my room."_

"_Darling, your room is fine the way it is."_

"_No, I don't like it. Please, Mummy, please! I want to paint it! Can I, please?"_

"_You're too small to paint it, Sherlock. Besides, it was repainted two years ago, it scarcely needs to be done again."_

"_But I don't liiiiiike it!"_

"_What don't you like about it, darling?"_

"_It's boring. Booooooring!"_

"_Boring, is it? Well, I rather like it. Besides, what colour would you want to paint it?"_

"_All of them."_

Sherlock was startled by the memory, blinking, refocusing on the colour of the walls now, trying to re-establish some sense that he was in the present, not four, not demanding to be allowed to paint a room that was no longer his, not speaking to a mother who was no longer living.

"It _is_ boring," he whispered to himself, glancing around.

He wondered if Sibyl had still liked it, or if she'd chosen to make it look this way to cater to the widest possible variety of guests, to ensure no one would really think anything of the room.

He shook his head, suddenly angry at himself, and stalked out, finding the nearest exit into the gardens and stepping into the warm air and sunshine. The sudden change in light helped, giving him something else to focus on as his eyes adjusted. Sherlock set off into the gardens, moving quickly until some of the agitation faded away, as if it was somehow linked to his physical proximity to the house. He slowed his pace after a few minutes, something inside of him settling, and wandered without direction or thought, lost among the budding plants and trees and the familiar silence of the countryside.


	5. Chapter 5

Not surprisingly, he had been left money.

More specifically, he and John had been left money.

As though they needed it. It seemed almost superfluous, but what else was there? The house and the grounds and the lands that were both here and in other parts of the country would be left to both Mycroft and Sherlock when William passed away, even the lands that Sibyl herself owned, that came to her from her own family. This had been agreed upon between them, Sherlock discovered, very early on.

He wondered how he and Mycroft would split up the responsibility. But it would all revert to David anyway, once both he and Mycroft were dead.

Or his share could go to Josephine, he thought.

No.

It _would_ go to Josephine.

Let her have something, let her be given land in the country, a holiday home on the Mediterranean. David would get his share from his father, but also from his mother. Angela MacTaggart was no more lacking in resources than was Mycroft.

Not that Tricia, as a doctor, and Henry, as a high-ranking corporate lawyer, were hard up for money.

But they were not from old families, did not enjoy the luxury of distant ancestors who had pillaged and taxed and robbed their way to wealth. Of course, it wouldn't do to phrase it that way, not out loud, not to his family - although John would have gotten a chuckle out of it.

Sherlock didn't care about the land or the properties, but Josephine might, some day. Perhaps not now, but then, she was only three and a half. What would a three-year-old do with a house? He almost smiled at the idea of Josephine as someone's landlady.

Passing these things on to Josephine would probably annoy the hell out of Mycroft, too, if he were still alive when it happened. Sherlock let himself enjoy this thought. He hoped Mycroft did outlive him, eventually, just so he could see someone unrelated inheriting whatever Sherlock owned.

He realized he was distracted and refocused his attention, knowing his alert and concerned and sombre appearance had stayed intact. He wondered if John knew that he'd trained his normally expressive features to still and stay unchanging when he really wanted them to. It was difficult, and he was often both annoyed by and envious of Sam's apparently innate ability to do so without any effort whatsoever, but he himself rarely needed to use this developed skill. He did so now, to avoid any unpleasantness, particularly from his brother.

Other than the money, everything else was straightforward. The contents of the manor house did not need to be disbursed, nor the contents of the villa in southern France. Even the properties in her name did not really belong to her, they belonged to the family.

It was a simple matter, and Sibyl had had the same will for quite some time, but the solicitor was well-paid and wanted to earn his fee, so it took longer than it should have. Sherlock didn't care; he could sit there and look as though he were paying attention as long as was required, because when it was all finished, there would be the sucking silence and uncertainty again.

Dinner the previous night had been the worst so far, and Sherlock suspected all of the dinners up until the funeral was over would follow the same pattern. Neither he nor his father had been particularly interested in family dinners, but they all ate together whenever they were home, and had done so when Sherlock had been growing up.

But it had been Mycroft and Sibyl who carried on the conversations, while William listened in vaguely and Sherlock attempted to wind his way around his mother and brother's questions about his life, which he usually accomplished with silence. This worked well for his father, less well for him. After John had become part of the family, he and Sibyl would also talk, and they genuinely seemed to like each other. John was firmly in the less-information-Mycroft-has-the-better camp, so Sherlock was no longer standing on his own against his brother, but John seemed to have no real compunctions about answering Sibyl's questions.

_He _had_ no compunctions_, Sherlock reminded himself.

There would be no more conversations.

Which meant dinner was silent. This made John uncomfortable, Sherlock could tell, and Mycroft wanted to pry, as he always did, but the twin silences of Sherlock and William put a stop to that. Despite it all, Mycroft was still British. He didn't particularly want to deal with messy emotional issues, and less so with his recalcitrant father and stubborn brother. Or with John, who just wouldn't answer his questions out of self-defence.

And they had at least one more of these dinners to look forward to.

_Brilliant_, Sherlock thought.

He wondered about the possibility of having their dinners in their rooms as well as their breakfast. It seemed like a good idea.

But it wasn't done.

Amazing how that idea could force the four of them into a room where none of them wanted to be, eating in silence, avoiding staring at one another, all because of appearances.

And who was watching?

No one.

He'd be glad when Tricia arrived from London the following day. He was fairly certain she could put her foot down and order a private dinner. She was unabashed about making demands and about her protectiveness in a way that John never was, not at all concerned about being too forceful or troublesome. It undoubtedly helped that Mycroft had no control over her. As far as Sherlock knew, his brother had never kidnapped Tricia for any little chats, as he'd done with John for quite some time. And he _would_ know about this, because Tricia would tell John, who would tell him.

Either that, or Mycroft would have ended up in a hospital with some broken ribs, a broken nose, and likely two black eyes.

Sherlock entertained this image while the lawyer droned on. He supposed it was a small mercy that Sibyl hadn't been the type to make one of those ridiculous video wills filled with sentimentality and poetry and musings on flowers and whatnot.

"_And this one? What's it called?"_

"_Common Foxglove," Sherlock replied obediently. Stand back. Make sure not to touch. Only touch if you're wearing gloves. He hadn't been given gloves. The gardener was angry at him for ruining some of the award-winning roses._

_Father had seemed surprised they had roses. Mummy had been exasperated and sent him to his room for a whole twenty-seven minutes. He wondered if Father needed to go to _his_ room for not knowing they had roses. _

"_Its scientific name?"_

"Digitalis purpurea_," Sherlock replied promptly._

"_And you don't eat it because…?"_

"_The whole plant is toxic, but the upper stem is the worst. The smallest amount can kill you."_

"_Very good," Mummy said, nodding. She did not seem exasperated now. She seemed pleased. "Name me the flowering plants you _can_ eat in this garden, Sherlock."_

_He hesitated._

"_The whole garden?"_

"_Just what you can see."_

"_Lilacs, pot marigolds, violets, jasmine, zucchini and pansies."_

"_And?"_

_He squirmed but Mummy raised an eyebrow, her grey eyes not releasing him. He wanted to escape, but his whole life, she'd be able to pin him with her gaze._

"_And roses," he muttered._

"_But?"_

"_Only the rose hips, Mummy."_

"_And then only when…?"_

"_When Bernard says it's all right and helps me pick them."_

_She rested her arms on her knees, crouched down to be at eye level with him. Her gloved hands hung between her knees, her pale skin ending in a sudden shock of dirt-smeared orange rubber and beige canvas. She was smiling._

"_That's right."_

He felt John's hand curl around his and was shocked back to the present, wondering how much time had passed in the flash of a memory, but the solicitor was still talking about banks and something to do with Mycroft's accounts, which was what he'd been droning on about when the memory had leapt up out of nowhere.

He slid his eyes to John for a brief moment and saw his husband evaluating him. John tightened his fingers briefly then released them, but kept his hand where it was. Sherlock was suddenly and intensely grateful for this, but didn't let it show, because the relief was laced with dizziness from moving between the past and the present too quickly, from the unexpected but not unwelcome contact from John.

He was surprised when they were actually finished, because it seemed like the solicitor could have gone on in his steady drone, William could have sat between his adult sons without moving, almost not blinking, and Mycroft could have feigned strained patience all day.

It was almost a relief to return to the manor, to the silence that was afforded to them for one more day. Mycroft had apparently made it clear to the myriad distant relations that they were not accepting guests until the day before the funeral, although anyone who wished was welcome to avail themselves of the local inns. There were undoubtedly people already arrived, and Sherlock hoped they had sense enough to just stay in their rented rooms and not take up residence, however temporary, in the house.

Even the staff were silent as though their voices might somehow interrupt Sibyl's death, shatter it, or perhaps just make it seem real. They went about their tasks with practiced efficiency, and greeted Sherlock when they saw him, and answered questions if they were asked, but there was a weighted sense in the house now, as if everyone was working in higher gravity, heavier air.

John took him back to their rooms and Sherlock was grateful again – it seemed to be the one place where memories would not assail him quite so much without warning, where he could just sit and do nothing and almost feel comfortable. John led him into the bedroom and set to undressing him, which Sherlock felt ambivalent about. He was not particularly in the mood, but nor was he in the mood to argue, and John's hands felt good, warm, familiar against his skin. He alternated over the past two days between wanting to row with John and listening unquestioningly to whatever the doctor said.

It was somewhat disappointing when John shuffled him into his pyjamas and at this, Sherlock was displeased. He wasn't tired. So what if he hadn't slept at all in two days? He'd done longer stinkt while working, and when he was on cases, he needed to concentrate and move about, often run about. Here, he had nothing to do but sit or wander around as whims dictated. There was nothing to make him tired, so why sleep at all?

"John," he sighed, but John ended all protests by kissing him, tenderly, and kept kissing him until Sherlock started to relax (completely against his will, he told himself but undermining that by snaking his arms around John's waist to trap him against Sherlock's body). John was warm – he was always warm – and his heartbeat was slow and steady.

He let John lay him down and snuggle up against him, covering them both with the light but warm duvet. Sherlock gave John a look that suggested he was only humouring the doctor, which John returned with the same sort of look. Sherlock huffed once, lightly, but gave up when John laced a hand into his hair and stroked the back of his skull. He was captured by John, but felt safe for a moment, just long enough to fall asleep.

* * *

><p>John woke him before supper, giving him enough time to dress again and make sure his hair was presentable, not sticking up from having been slept on and having John's fingers combing through it for some time. Sherlock was fairly certain that John had sat up the whole time during which Sherlock had slept, just stroking his scalp and holding him.<p>

It struck him as he looked at himself in the mirror that the last time John had done this was after Sam had died.

He had to steady himself quickly by grasping the edges of the counter, and was glad that John had gone into the sitting room for something. For a moment, a brief but interminable and irrational and suffocating moment, Sherlock wondered if, since John had done this once before and Sam had not actually died, this might mean his mother had not died, either.

He pressed a forefinger and thumb to the bridge of his nose.

_That makes absolutely no sense_, he told himself.

With practiced effort, he regained control of his thoughts and pushed the absurd fantasy away, ignoring the sting it left behind, because it was unnecessary and unproductive. He gave himself a glare in the mirror for good measure, admonishing himself to behave, and finished fixing his hair. When John came back in, Sherlock had him check for white hairs, and was pleased with the negative result.

They went down for dinner, both of them reluctant, but neither willing to just refuse. It was silent again, although less strained, because Mycroft did not seem to want to talk after the reading of the will, and ate perfunctorily, as though he was trying to get through this as quickly as possible.

"Mycroft, can someone drive us down to the train station tomorrow to meet Doctor Remsen?" John asked as the first course was being cleared.

_Doctor Remsen_, Sherlock noted dully. He wouldn't use Tricia's name casually around Mycroft. He was still angry about the hit woman incident. Well, so was Sherlock. It had been stupid and terrifying and unnecessary.

"Of course, John," Mycroft replied. No hint of weariness in his voice but it was there in his eyes. "Just tell George what time and he'll arrange it."

They could flee the manor for awhile, and come back with someone whom Sherlock would welcome. Not one of the tedious distant relations. _One of the close relations_, he thought, repressing a quirk of his lips. Sherlock wondered if it galled Mycroft, who was not traditional in the matters of family himself, that Sherlock had been unwittingly but not unwillingly wrapped in a _de facto_ family that was not related to him, even remotely, by blood. He'd married John and inherited a sister-in-law who was not actually John's sister, and then a niece. When he thought about it, he was still surprised that all of this had come about because he'd mentioned in passing one day to Mike Stamford that he was looking for a flatmate.

He almost wished Tricia was bringing Josephine. He missed her and she had a way, perhaps because she was a small child, of making even the most dismal things seem bearable. He remembered how they'd napped together after he'd gotten that concussion a few years ago and how, when Tricia had checked his healing head wound during one of her babysitting-the-detective sessions, Josephine had clambered onto the arm of the couch and peered very curiously but carefully at the stitched cut.

As the second course – glazed salmon with asparagus – was distributed, Sherlock suddenly realized what had been nagging at the back of his mind all day, nudging at his brain, trying to get his attention. He smoothed the linen napkin onto his lap and looked across the table at his brother.

"Why are Angela and David not here?"

Everything seemed to stop as Mycroft and John stared at him, both shocked, but in different ways, to different degrees.

That expression on his brother's face made a similar sensation course down Sherlock's spine and settle heavily into his stomach, twinning with denial, because it could not be, after four years, it was unthinkable, especially now.

Mycroft's eyes narrowed somewhat and he gave a minute shake of his head, just once short movement.

_No_, Sherlock thought. That wasn't _fair_. He felt cold suddenly, his fingers tingling, almost itching to grab hold of one of the knives, not for something to attack with, but for the threat of it. He forced himself to keep still, meeting his brother's gaze levelly, but could not restrain the anger that replaced the cold feeling with a sudden and too-intense heat.

"You never told her," he said softly and saw John flinch only the smallest amount. His voice felt cold, belying the sharp rage burning at the front of his brain. "All this time, Mycroft, and you never told her. She never _knew_. She _died_ and she never knew!"

"Sherlock–" Mycroft started, holding up a hand and Sherlock flared his nostrils.

"You should have told her," Sherlock hissed.

"Neither of them knew Mum," Mycroft continued wearily, shaking his head. The gesture, at once condescending and dismissive, made him angrier, made the whole bloody situation more real, starker, more unthinkable.

"No," Sherlock snapped. "Because you didn't bother to mention it!"

"I told you it would be David's decision–"

"He's thirteen, he doesn't get to make decisions like this!"

"Who," William said, his voice even icier, cutting through the charged air between the brothers, startling John so that he jerked in surprise again, "are Angela and David?"

"Don't," Mycroft warned but Sherlock met his father's dark-eyed gaze, for possibly the first time since the conversation about organ donation in the ICU almost three days previous. He'd had enough of his brother's lies and dissembling and incomplete information. Because their mother had died without knowing she had a grandson.

"Angela is a former colleague of Mycroft's and currently– I'm uncertain as to precisely what their relationship is. David is their son."

William held Sherlock's gaze for a long moment, then slid his dark brown eyes to Mycroft. For the first time ever, Sherlock saw disappointment, disbelief, anger and betrayal warring in his father's face, directed at his eldest son. Sherlock had experienced most of these himself – although not betrayal – sometimes in combination, when he'd been growing up, but he'd never seen Mycroft subjected to it.

It should have felt glorious, but it didn't. It made him angrier.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," he heard John mutter and heard the reproach in his husband's voice but ignored it. It was irrelevant. John could yell later all he wanted, in the privacy of their rooms, but this needed to be dealt with now. Because it hadn't been before, and they would bury Sibyl in two days and she'd never know.

"And he's thirteen?" William enquired, his voice deceptively smooth. For once, Sherlock saw the fire behind his father's eyes and it was not banked, not entirely controlled.

"This is perhaps not the time," Mycroft said.

"I disagree," their father replied. "It seems to me that this would be precisely the time, as it's been waiting for over a decade. Of course, _before_ your mother's death may have been more appropriate."

At this, the anger in Mycroft's eyes matched William's, but Sherlock knew it was directed at him, not his father. He'd pinned his brother and Mycroft hated it, but if he was so unwilling to acknowledge the truth, then he shouldn't have agreed to Angela's request to be her child's father. And he shouldn't have become more involved in the boy's life, which Sherlock knew he was from what John had told him, years ago now.

Always trying to control everything, every eventuality, every outcome.

To protect David? Perhaps.

But from the woman who'd worn the orange plastic and beige canvas garden gloves? Who'd crouched down with her six-year-old son to explain about edible and toxic plants? What threat would she have been? How terrible would it have been, for Mycroft, to tell Sibyl about her only grandchild?

He stood abruptly from the table, the chair scraping against the polished hardwood, the sound shockingly loud in the sudden and oppressive silence. He felt like another breath in this room would kill him, constrict his lungs so much they'd stop working, so he shook his head once, abruptly, then strode away, expelling a forceful breath as he did so. Sherlock heard John scramble up after him but kept going, not slowing his long-legged stride, knowing John would catch up even if he had to run. He left his father and brother to sort out Mycroft's ridiculous nonsense and sought the fresh air, the outdoors, because anything else right now would smother him.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath, tilting his face toward the sun, raking his hands into his hair and then balling them into fists, tugging. The sharp, sudden pain helped, taking away some of the burning in his lungs. He exhaled then inhaled again, breathing through clenched teeth.

"What the hell was that?" John yelled, coming out of the house several steps behind him. Sherlock released his own hair and spun, barring his teeth angrily.

"What?" he demanded, forcing his voice to be level and cold. "What?"

"That!" John yelled, gesturing back at the house. "What– You– Sherlock, what the bloody hell were you thinking?"

"What was _I_ thinking?" Sherlock shot back. "Me, John? Not Mycroft, who never told anyone? He wouldn't have told me if he hadn't had to! And fine, yes, I'm not _interested_, but she– she wants– _wanted_ grandchildren and they bloody well weren't coming from me! All he had to do was tell her! Bloody selfish _stupid_ git!"

He yelled this last bit back at the house, as though Mycroft could hear him, as though he could add to the dissatisfaction that was currently being placed on Mycroft by their father.

"It was to protect David!" John yelled. "You know that!"

"Protect him?" Sherlock snarled, refocusing fast on his husband. "_Protect him_, John? From what? It was because of Mycroft that he was abducted in the first place! It's already _happened_! What is he being protected from now? You? Hardly! Me? Yes, I know about him, and Mycroft made that decision himself when he asked me to investigate, because he knew I'd find out eventually! And whom do I know who would hurt David to get at me? Even if Moriarty were still alive, it wouldn't be David, because I don't even know him, it would be Jo, so no, it's not me!"

John jerked back as though he'd been physically struck and Sherlock narrowed his eyes.

"What?" he demanded. "What? Terribly sorry, did that startle you? Did you not like that? Because it's _true_, John! And Moriarty's dead!"

"If you ever–"

"If I ever what? If I ever sit and consider what might happen to the people I care about because of what I do? If I ever think about how exposed it leaves them– you? If I ever consider that Moriarty had gone after Sam instead of you only because he'd been looking for Sam, because Sam got away? If I ever think that he could have done–"

"Don't say it," John warned, his voice suddenly hard, his eyes blazing. Sherlock glared and shook the warning away, but bit down on the next words, because he did not want to say them either, not now, not ever. They were bad enough to think.

"Or protect David from our father?" he snapped, righting himself back into the actual argument. "Because he has so many enemies, doesn't he? Or from our mother? Because she's _dead_, John! She's dead! He needed protection from his own bloody father, not from me, not from our father, certainly not from our mother! But he was so certain, _so certain_, and he let her _die_ without knowing–"

Sherlock stopped and sat down abruptly on the stone retaining wall of a raised flowerbed – _And this one? What's it called? Shut up shut up shut up – _and dropped his head into one hand, pressing the heel of his hand hard into his forehead.

"He didn't tell her, and now she's dead," he said in a flat voice.

There was still anger in the air, Sherlock felt it, because John had never been good at hiding his disapproval, but he was mercifully silent, and Sherlock sucked in a quiet breath, not letting his hands shake, not letting himself get away with this nonsense. He stared at the flagstones on the path leading into the garden, noted the changes in colour, the unevenness, the play of sunlight and dappled shadows from the just-budding bushes and small trees, the scatter of dirt across some of the dark, stony surfaces of the slate slabs.

"I know," John said, and tangled a hand in his hair.

Sherlock sat up fast, pushing John's arm out of the way, ignoring that he startled himself by doing this, startled John, ignoring the violent, nauseous feeling he'd had at the contact, at the way it had made him feel broken, shattered, for a moment.

"Piss off, John, I'm fine!" he snapped, standing quickly, towering over John, who looked angry and hurt and frustrated and offended.

"You're not fine!" John snapped.

"No, am I not?" Sherlock retorted. "So glad you're able to read my mind, John! Or perhaps this is a doctor thing? Or is it just that you have expectations of how I should react to the fact that my mother died? People die, John, it happens! _All the time_. This is no different! I'm not you, I don't need succumb to tears or sleep or any of it!"

"I know you're not me!" John shot back. "And for God's sake, I know people die all the time! I'm a bloody doctor and I was in bloody Afghanistan! And it's not easy, Sherlock, it never is!"

"Why not? Why not? This is _real_, John! Nothing's going to change it, so why must you insist on– on pandering to me?"

"Sorry, pandering to you, Sherlock? How in the bloody hell do you call yourself a genius? I'm not 'pandering' to you! You just bloody well told your father about David, despite the fact that Mycroft specifically asked you not to! You have no idea–"

"Yes, I do, because, unlike you, John, I _am_ a genius! So is Mycroft! Mycroft lied David's entire life, to him, to us, to my mother, and she died, _she died, _John, without knowing! Who's going to kidnap him now? Or are you worried it will be worse? That someone will just kill him?"

"I'm not but Mycroft is!" John yelled at him and Sherlock took a step back at the force in John's voice, which was almost physical. If the doctor had struck him, it may have been only slightly more vehement. And Sherlock had seen what John's right hook could do.

"And that has denied _our mother_ her grandchild, John. And now she's dead. All of those stupid guilt trips he tried to lay on me over the years and this? This? Of all the stupid–" Sherlock cut himself off, because there were no adjectives in any of the languages he knew to properly describe what he thought about his brother at the moment.

"She had both of you," John said, his voice slightly calmer. "That was enough."

"And how would you know that?" Sherlock snapped. He fixed his eyes on the sun, keeping them there until it hurt then dropping them again, so that John was only a haze of blue after-image.

"She told me."

Sherlock stared at John until he could properly see him again, the blue fading slowly because he refused to blink. John's face came back into focus, concerned, familiar, his brown eyes lit with anger and love, which was an uncomfortable combination and only served to make Sherlock more irate.

"She told you," he repeated flatly.

"Yes," John said.

"Then she lied."

John blinked, then stared at him in shock, disbelief.

"She lied, John," Sherlock said again.

"Deduced that, did you?" John shot back.

"No. She told me. Years ago. Said she wished Mycroft would settle down and have a family." He gave a dry laugh. "Not me though."

"_So, tell me, how is John Watson?"_

"_Mum! Blast! Mycroft told you. He shouldn't have told you."_

"_Well, were you going to?" A gentle, knowing smile._

"_Yes, of course." Answered with a growl in his voice._

"_When you got around to it."_

"_No, right now."_

"_Mm-hmm." Sibyl smiled, grey eyes bright. But happy. Because she liked John. Loved John. So did he._

"Maybe she accepted it," John sighed.

"Not the same as wanting it," Sherlock replied, his words clipped. He glared back at the house, which seemed silent, shut off from them at the moment, and they were alone in the garden, no one else in sight or earshot.

He turned suddenly, walking away.

"Wait! Sherlock! Where are you going?"

"For a walk," Sherlock answered shortly. "Alone."

"You–"

"What?" he asked, spinning back. "I can't? I'm a grown man, John, in case you've failed to notice. I'm going for a walk. I don't want to talk about my bloody brother and his bloody son and his bloody idiocy anymore."

He almost said good-bye, but the word had too much finality, especially now, so he bit down on it and turned away again, half expecting John to follow, half disappointed when he didn't.

He walked far enough to ensure that he was alone, that John hadn't crept after him, that there was no one else around. Sherlock stood still and listened, closed his eyes, smelled the air, but could detect only the faint aromas of early leaves on the plants, of fertile soil, of water, of bark, of fresh air. No other scents, nothing human, no pheromones or perfumes or soaps or hair products.

But sunshine, he smelled sunshine, which smelled like John.

He allowed himself to sit down heavily on a wooden bench and dropped his head into his hands, shuddering. It hurt, making pain flare down all of his nerves, tensing his muscles, catching his breath in his lungs. Sherlock exhaled slowly and the shudder passed, leaving him feeling inexplicably exhausted.

He stayed there until the sensation abated, too long, so that he almost forgot why he was there in the first place, why he was alone, what had driven him outside. It seemed, for an extended moment, that he would not ever be able to move again, that he had no control, that he was lost and couldn't find his way back along the familiar paths. But when he managed to raise his head, he could see the house in the near distance and it was not so far, he told himself, trying to convince his unwilling legs, his shattered muscles, his numb mind.

It was not so far at all.

* * *

><p>He spent the night on the sofa in their sitting room, the terrace doors wide open, admitting the cold night breeze, arms crossed and hunched over, absolutely refusing to sleep. And John spent the night in their guest bed, also not sleeping, Sherlock knew. They hadn't spoken a word since Sherlock had come back, nor had Mycroft come to see them, nor William. John had emerged from the bedroom just long enough to see that it was Sherlock and to give him a brief, clinical sweep with his eyes, looking for any injuries or problems.<p>

_Or perhaps needle marks?_ Sherlock had thought bitterly but recognized that wasn't fair, even though he wanted to snap at John about it. He'd invented that, because he was clean – had been for ages – and John had never once accused him of taking drugs. All right, once, jokingly, after the crash, the doctor had teased him about smuggling morphine from the hospital, but not in a way that suggested he thought Sherlock would. Besides, morphine was terrible. It slowed him down and made him tired and lethargic.

So he'd kept his mouth shut and taken to the sofa, sulking, which normally worked, but John shut the door with a firm click that signalled he was equally as serious.

When John emerged the next morning, shortly after dawn, since sleeping was a moot point for either of them, he closed the terrace doors and crossed his arms, looking at Sherlock. Sherlock kept his own arms folded, in part because he was cold, and he knew the goose bumps on his skin were a dead giveaway.

He'd managed to hold onto his anger all night, in part to keep any more memories of his mother from resurfacing. This was simpler.

"Trying to give yourself hypothermia?" John asked, but there was a hint of warm resignation in his voice. Sherlock grunted but didn't look up – although he was secretly relieved that John had shut the doors. Leaving them open had been, in retrospect, a mistake, but correcting it would have meant getting up.

And he hadn't been willing to move if John wasn't. Even though they were in separate rooms. And John couldn't see him with the door shut.

It was the principle that was important.

Admittedly, he couldn't quite recall what that was at the moment, at least when it came to why he was angry with John. Mycroft, he understood.

John unfolded his arms and bent down somewhat, chafing his hands against Sherlock's arms to warm them up. Sherlock huffed but resolutely kept his eyes from John's brown ones. The doctor was warm, since he'd spent all night in the bed with the duvet for cover.

"You're freezing," John said, perching on the edge of the couch, forcing Sherlock to edge towards the cushions. The doctor then took up whatever space Sherlock freed for him, which was annoying. And now Sherlock had nowhere to escape.

But he was giving up space to John, he realized. This was even more annoying.

"I'm fine," he sighed, but didn't wave John's hands away.

"So you keep saying," John replied.

At this, Sherlock shifted his gaze finally, anger flashing through him.

"And you don't believe me," he snapped back.

"Right now, no," John replied. "Your mum just died. You're not fine."

"I know she died, John. I was there."

"So was I."

Sherlock looked away again, focusing on the painting on the opposite wall. It was less bland than the one in his old bedroom. He wondered who had chosen it. It looked like northern Wales, near Snowdon, perhaps. He wondered why there was a picture of Snowdon in their rooms. It was lovely, in that jagged, rocky, outdoors sort of way.

"I should be the judge of my own state of mine, John."

John sighed and gave up on rubbing Sherlock's arms. Sherlock waited for the inevitable retort, the cajoling, the medical assessments, the typical John-ness of it all.

"All right," John said.

Sherlock's eyes flashed back to his husband.

"All right?" he asked.

"Would you like to keep the row going?" John asked.

_Yes_, Sherlock thought. _No._

"If you say you're fine, you're fine. When you say you're not fine, you'll be not fine."

Sherlock chewed the inside of his cheek to keep from chewing his lip – it was less obvious this way. He did _not_ want John to assume he was feeling uncertain. He _wasn't_ feeling uncertain. There was nothing to be uncertain about.

His mother was dead.

It wasn't going to change.

"You need to shower," John said.

"I don't want to," Sherlock replied shortly, even though the idea of getting warm again was actually quite appealing.

"We need to go meet Tricia at the train station. Want to do that on no sleep and yesterday's clothes?"

Sherlock flared his nostrils. Of course he did not. He wasn't about to go out in public looking and feeling like this. Especially not to greet Tricia, who would be bound to notice in about two seconds they'd had a row, because she was somehow amazingly adept at spotting that. He wondered briefly if she were secretly a proper genius, too, but no. She was just observant about the two of them, for some unknown reason. Possibly because she was a woman. Or, maybe, admittedly, because she was their friend, although Sherlock liked that choice less at the moment.

"All right," he muttered. "But no shagging." It was John's favourite damn place to shag. Something about the hot water and the cold tiles. Sherlock just liked the way his husband's voice echoed in their small bathroom.

"Yeah, not really in the mood," John said flatly, and this struck Sherlock as unfair. Certainly _he_ was allowed not to be in the mood, but John shouldn't feel the same way.

He wondered, momentarily, if perhaps some sleep would help.

_Coffee,_ he decided. _But showering first._

With a sigh, he hauled himself to his feet and went into the bathroom, John following close behind.


	7. Chapter 7

Tricia's train arrived at mid-morning, by which time John was starting to look tired, despite the two cups of coffee and the breakfast he'd consumed. Sherlock had eaten as well, but felt no different for it. Certainly he wasn't tired anymore; the idea of sleeping held no appeal.

A few other people disembarked along with her, and Sherlock hoped they weren't family, or at least not family he recognized. Since they seemed to be travelling singly or in pairs, not in packs, and didn't have the air of sympathetic mourners (or people put out by having to be sympathetically mournful), he decided they weren't related. Tricia stepped down, blinking in the bright sunlight, shading her eyes with one hand.

She spotted them and headed over, weaving through the small crowd of disembarking passengers, passengers waiting to get on the train, others waiting to greet or bid good-bye. Sherlock felt antsy and stood with his hands in his trousers pockets, trying to ignore the sensation of John standing beside him, because he could feel John's presence radiating like heat. It was distracting.

He fully expected Tricia to greet John first, but she surprised him by pulling him into a warm hug, forcing him to bend over slightly because she was so much shorter than he was. She wound her arms round his shoulders and held him for a moment, then pressed a quick kiss against his cheek.

"I'm so sorry about your mum," she said, releasing them, then turning to John. They embraced, more comfortably, and then Tricia pulled back, looking at both of them. It was a moment, but only a moment, before her blue eyes narrowed somewhat and Sherlock repressed a sigh.

"What else happened?" she asked. Sherlock saw John glance away and focused his own gaze on the horizon, in so far as he could see it with the train partially blocking the view. They were silenced momentarily by the train's departure, when any attempt at talking would have been swallowed up by the sounds of the engine gearing up again, the wheels lurching forward. Tricia waited patiently until the noise had died enough to be heard again, then twitched her eyebrows upwards.

"Have a row?" she asked. When neither man answered, she sighed, shaking her head.

"About what?" she pressed. Sherlock frowned. He didn't want to talk about it, particularly not there.

Echoing his thoughts, John said:

"Not here."

She nodded briefly, adjusting her overnight bag on her shoulder, and followed them to the waiting car. The silence on the ride back to the manor was a different tone than it had been on the way to the train station – less expectant, somewhat less pressing.

Sherlock was mildly surprised by Tricia's reaction to the manor, mostly because she didn't seem to have one. She glanced at the grounds and house briefly when they pulled into the drive, and he was uncertainly suddenly why he'd been expecting a reaction similar to John's. Perhaps because she knew John so well and had been in the army with him, and was from a more comparable background. John was always impressed by old homes such as these or pricey flats.

Tricia barely seemed to notice.

Did she not care? What an intriguing concept. Sherlock didn't care, but he'd grown up with it. She hadn't.

They were greeted by some staff – Sherlock had yet to cross path with his father or brother again – Tricia's belongings were taken to the guest suite, but she joined them in theirs, and now Sherlock found a use for the third chair on the terrace. Tea and scones came and Tricia availed herself of these as though she were used to it.

"So are you going to tell me what's going on, or do I have to play twenty questions?"

Sherlock sniffed; sometimes Tricia spoke far too much like a mother for his liking. It wasn't as though he were Josephine's age. He and John were perfectly capable of looking after themselves without interference, although he could feel that pointed blue-eyed gaze boring into him and resisted the urge to glare back or fidget. He was not some child to be reprimanded.

When he didn't consent to answer, busying himself with stirring his tea, and Tricia cast a look at John, who cast one at Sherlock, who ignored both of them altogether.

"Sherlock told his father about David. In front of Mycroft."

For John, it was quite a succinct explanation, Sherlock noted. He seemed better at those with Tricia, and Sherlock wondered if it was the army training, the direct and concise way they had to communicate via radio or in surgery.

"What?" Tricia asked, turning back to Sherlock, her tea and scones momentarily forgotten. "Why?"

"Because he wouldn't," Sherlock replied shortly, still not looking up at her. When she was silent for longer than expected, he did look up, raising only his eyes, and found her surprised.

"Oh," she said when he met her gaze and now he gave her a glare for good measure. "Well."

"Please," Sherlock said, keeping his voice icy to cover the flash of anger in his chest, a sensation that seemed all too familiar now. "Inform me of my utter stupidity."

She leant back in her chair and he saw her sigh inwardly as she reached for her teacup and sipped the hot, milky drink.

"I don't really think I have to," she commented, "judging by the tone of your voice. You and your brother are quite a pair. How you've managed to avoid blowing up half of London so far is beyond me."

Sherlock twitched his eyebrows up unwittingly and glanced between her and John. He wondered if they'd plotted this, because John could have been talking to her last night for all Sherlock knew. He disliked the idea that they might be ganging up on him, although they'd certainly done it before. More than once.

He suddenly regretted asking John to have Tricia come, since it gave John an ally against him. At the moment, John did not need allies. Sherlock felt quite certain Mycroft would be on John's side, although this was a slightly dubious distinction.

And he certainly didn't need another row or another lecture. There were some things from the previous day he wished he could take back, both words and gestures, but he was unwilling to admit that out loud, and especially not in front of someone else.

He'd be damned if they were going to corner him now. He had enough to contend with in the form of his brother, with whatever retaliation Mycroft would launch – and he would, Sherlock was certain – and with his mother's death.

"You know, Jo never knew my mother, either," Tricia said then, though, and Sherlock saw the look of surprise on John's face.

He'd been wrong.

This had not been set up.

Or Tricia wasn't cooperating with what John wanted. This possibility intrigued him, and reminded him that she was also willing to join forces with Sherlock against John should she find it necessary.

_Very mercenary of her_, Sherlock thought, but it was tinged with approval.

"But my mum died long before Jo was born," Tricia continued. "I didn't know your mum, but it seems to me she'd have been a good grandmother. After all, she raised both you and Mycroft and did it without going mad and neither of you turned into crazed serial killers. That's got to say something about her character."

Sherlock thought it was entirely inappropriate when John repressed a startled laugh and completely unconvincingly covered it with a cough.

"Although, of course, you may want to insure your flat and yourselves now. Except that 'angry and dangerous brother' is not likely to be a valid insurance excuse. But– you may want to suggest to Mycroft that your mother wouldn't have liked this. And for her sake, maybe just stop it here, before it goes any further."

Sherlock repressed a growl; Mycroft had always trotted out guilt trips about their mother to get him to cooperate and the memory of that was both annoying and painful, now.

_Stop it_, he told himself. _It changes nothing._

And she was dead. What would she care? She wouldn't, because there was nothing left. Did it matter that she wouldn't have approved? Would Mycroft think so, and would that be enough to have him listen to reason, for once?

"Besides," Tricia continued, unaware of his internal displeasure, "Now David will never know what he's lost. And that _is_ unfortunate. We all lose enough as it is. He should have had the chance to know her before losing her, and now he won't. Nor will your mother. And that, I think, is quite sad."

She looked between the two of them and Sherlock sipped his tea to bite down on a reply that would only earn him more of Tricia's pointed reprimands.

_People die all the time_, he thought. She _knew_ that. She was a doctor. She'd been in a war. She'd lost her brother young and then her own mother sometime later. Surely there was only so much of this sadness she claimed to see that one could take before it just became normal and unremarkable? That _must_ be the case.

"I don't suppose either of you has actually told Mycroft that _I_ know, have you?" she enquired. "No, I thought not."

Not that it mattered, Sherlock suspected. John had managed to wrangle Mycroft into a meeting through Angela and to get Sherlock out on a case with Lestrade by using Tricia as part of a very complicated but surprisingly successful scheme. Either his brother had figured out that Tricia was aware of David's existence or Angela had told him.

He was somewhat surprised and more than a little annoyed that Mycroft didn't seem bothered that someone he didn't know was aware of his relationship with David, but refused to tell his own family. Although, he supposed, Tricia was not a threat nor would her knowing result in any discomfort or problems for Mycroft.

"But," Tricia continued, "you probably should have told Mycroft privately first to tell your father."

She paused, her lips twitching into a wry smile.

"Although I think you know that."

Sherlock grunted; not really a reply either way. He really did not want to talk about this, but he supposed it was better than being forced to talk about Sibyl, and he predicted enough of that for the following day with relatives he didn't know who would want to hear his memories. He felt this wasn't fair; they were _his_ memories, and he desperately wanted them to stop assailing him without warning. It would be so much harder to keep them at bay when being reminded of them, asked about them, having them tossed back at him with "you were probably too young to remember this, but…" from distant family members who had known them during Sherlock's childhood.

"You two," Tricia said, gesturing to both of them, "need to sort yourselves out. I think one family row the day before a funeral is more than plenty – especially the kind of family row you and Mycroft seem to specialize in, Sherlock. Take it from an expert. Tomorrow's going to be bad enough. I promise."

She put her teacup aside and regarded them again.

"You might try a good make-up shag," she suggested and John tried not to choke on his tea and Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes. With the John coughing, Tricia stood, fixing Sherlock with her blue-eyed stare.

"Can I have my clothing for tomorrow pressed here?" she asked.

"Yes," he replied. "Give it to any of the staff and let them know what you want."

She nodded.

"I'm going to do that, and shower, and very pointedly leave the two of you alone, understand? I'll tell whatever staff people I see not to bother you until lunch, too."

She gave them a piercing look and John nodded and Sherlock felt himself doing the same, quite against his will. Tricia didn't smile, but her blue eyes gleamed with triumph for a moment and Sherlock wondered what he'd done to deserve an overbearing older brother _and_ an overbearing sister-in-law who was, amazingly, not actually in league with Mycroft on any of this.

It was like being attacked from two sides at once, but he lacked the lifetime of practice against Tricia's assaults, which were less subtle than Mycroft's generally were yet somehow so much more effective.

It didn't help that she could get the best of John, too, at the same time.

And that she seemed to be able to embarrass John regarding their sex life, as if John were somehow surprised she knew anything about it. It wasn't exactly a secret, after all. What were his qualms about having people comment on it? Sherlock had never understood.

He dwelt on this to avoid dwelling on anything else.

"Good. I'll see you at lunch."

She left and Sherlock and John sat in silence for a moment, not entirely certain they should look at each other. John cleared his throat, and Sherlock understood the scolded feeling. Somehow, he couldn't muster the indignant feeling he thought he was due for being lectured like he was a child and actually feeling abashed by it.

A knock on the suite's main door saved them both and John pushed himself to his feet much more quickly than necessary, hurrying inside. Sherlock sipped his tea, wondering why Tricia had come back, because they didn't need more tea and had requested nothing else, and the harmonics had been wrong for his brother or his father's knock.

"What did you forget?" he called, not bothering to look up.

"Um, no," John's voice came and at this, Sherlock did raise his head. He managed not to lose his grip on his teacup only thanks to quick reflexes when he saw John coming back onto the terrace with Angela MacTaggart.

* * *

><p>"Can I speak to your husband alone, John?" she asked, as though Sherlock was not actually there. John cast a questioning glance at Sherlock, who managed a nod, still catching up. Angela was watching him coolly, but not, he noted, with any sort of anger. At least not anger directed at him.<p>

She looked older than when he'd last seen her, which, granted, had been almost four years ago now. Her brown hair, swept off her face and loosely tied up, was highlighted here and there with grey, but it did not look shocking on her; rather, it looked natural and seemed to fit the seriousness of her eyes, of her stance. She held herself poised, more so than four years ago, although those had been much different circumstances.

He pondered that he'd never encountered her when something was not going terribly wrong.

"Right," John said hesitantly and slipped away, pausing again before closing the terrace doors behind him. Angela watched him go, arms crossed loosely over her stomach, looking over her shoulder, her features sharp and smooth in profile. When John was out of sight, and presumably not listening from the bedroom window, because she'd have known that, she sat down opposite Sherlock, crossing one leg over the other at the knee.

He watched her, waiting.

"Do you have any cigarettes?" she enquired.

He stared, then gave a wry laugh.

"No. Not now."

"Hmm," she commented vaguely, arching her eyebrows for a moment. "Pity."

She was silent again for a minute, regarding him thoughtfully.

"Do you know, I didn't even know she'd died?"

Sherlock was startled, but kept it from showing, more or less. He wondered if her training would counter his and she'd pick up on it, or if he were better at this than she was. It was impossible to tell at the moment.

"He didn't tell you?" Sherlock asked.

"No. Not until last night. Early this morning, rather."

Now he understood the faint tinge of anger in her eyes, in the faint Scottish accent in her voice.

"No, I didn't know that," he said.

"It appears I have you to thank."

"Evidently."

"I respected Mycroft's decision, Sherlock, and David's choice in this matter. I never expected anything from your brother, nor asked it for him. We were both very clear on that, in the beginning."

"Things change," Sherlock said.

She fixed him with a stare that almost rivalled Tricia's.

"Yes. They did."

Not hypothetical. But he knew that. He didn't know the details, but he knew something had. Had known it since the chat John had arranged between him and Mycroft, when John had figured out it was Angela who had ordered the hit on Marco De Luca, not Mycroft. And Mycroft had let everyone – Sherlock, John, Sam, Alessandra De Luca – assume it was him to protect Angela's involvement.

And she was wearing the ring that had been Mycroft's, the silver one, on the middle finger of her right hand. He'd noted his brother hadn't worn this for quite some time, but hadn't asked about it, because it hadn't been important.

Or so he'd assumed. He'd been wrong about that.

"Is David here?" he asked.

"No. I thought this was not the best time for him to meet his grandfather and his uncles. And he never met your mother. I'm still _his_ mother, and I can make these choices. But he agreed."

Sherlock watched her for a moment.

"You never met our mother, either," he pointed out.

"I didn't," Angela agreed, nodding. Her movements were smooth, assured, with a hint of something else beneath the surface. Frustration, he thought. And something else. Concern.

"But you're here," he replied.

She nodded, pushing herself from her chair in a fluid motion.

"Yes," she said, giving him a small, brief smile. "I am here."


	8. Chapter 8

Tricia had been right about one thing: the following day was bad enough.

She had been right about a good many things, Sherlock suspected, because she could be rather infuriating that way.

She had been wrong about him and John, though.

They had continued to skirt around one another, not entirely certain or comfortable, too much hanging in the air between them but neither willing to name those unspoken things.

Angela's presence didn't help, even after she'd left from her brief visit. Her being there made Sherlock both relieved and uneasy; she was an unknown quantity and her motivations weren't clear. Certainly she had some relationship with Mycroft, but what it was, he had no idea. He wondered if they had any idea themselves.

But she had the benefit of tempering Mycroft somehow, so when Sherlock did see his brother later that evening at dinner (which somehow managed to happen again despite Tricia's presence) he said nothing, only nodded and ate in silence.

The silence was somehow worse with more people, with two women who were unrelated family and who didn't know each other. Tricia and Angela bore up under it with grace, which Sherlock would have unthinking expected from Angela, given her background, and which he was grateful that Tricia could maintain. He supposed a supper in silence was better than being bombed and shot at, all things considered.

A sidelong glance at John made him re-evaluate that – at least as far as his husband was concerned.

They had at least been able to avoid dinner with any distant relations. Sherlock wavered between feeling astonished and unsurprised that William had decided on this, very coolly and firmly turning aside any requests or protests from the visiting family members who had arrived at the house during the day. He brushed aside any objections over Tricia and Angela, not bothering to explain who they were.

It was his house – solely his house now – and his typical silence in the face of dissent won out, as it always did.

Sherlock had avoided the distant relations for the most part by simply keeping to his small suite of rooms.

He wasn't _hiding_, he told himself. He was enjoying his privacy. It was completely different. Sherlock Holmes didn't _hide_ from anything. He simply chose what he wished to confront and when. Nothing more.

The funeral, however, confronted him instead, and there was no avoiding it.

He despised every single minute of it.

From the fact that it was being held at the local Anglican church – even though he was fairly certain his mother hadn't been religious, nor was his father, so the choice of venue made no sense – to the crowd of so-called mourners, many of whom he could not even name and he wondered if Sibyl could have, to the weather, which was unnecessarily warm and sunny.

He considered that a proper British funeral should be accompanied by proper British weather.

Rain.

It should have been raining.

But instead, it was bright, with a warm spring breeze that carried the early scent of lilacs that made him clamp down on memories of his mother in their gardens. The air was a pleasant temperature and there were these dratted birds chirping everywhere, which was unlike London – although (he admitted grudgingly and only to himself) the lack of gutter pigeons was at least a nice change.

And everyone was dressed in black.

Sherlock had no issues with black, but took issue with the idea of colour representing an emotional state, and more so with he idea that he must outwardly display that emotional state, even if he didn't want to, even if he had no desire to play the part of a grieving son in front of all of these people – these _strangers_ – who had invaded his life without his permission.

He despised seeing such sombre clothing that could not quite mask the boredom on some faces, the displeasure on others, the calculating looks – or what they _thought_ were calculating looks, because they weren't very good ones – on yet others who wanted something from the will, or from William, some bit of the money Sherlock would gladly have given them if they'd asked. Because he didn't need it, it just added more to the bank accounts, more that would sit there and do nothing unless John thought to use it for something.

Sherlock would have drained the entirety of his bank accounts, down the very last cent, for these people if they'd asked for it.

If it would have brought Sibyl back.

He bit down hard on that thought, forcing himself to refocus on where he was and what was happening.

It didn't help.

He felt he could sense every single person in the unnecessary church, feel their gaze on his family, smell the subtle differences in body odours, soaps, shampoos, perfumes, colognes, tease apart those scents and associate them with their owners. He felt the presence of the other mourners almost like a weight, because he knew he wouldn't be escaping it after this, with the burial and then the wake. Thankfully the latter of these was being held without a viewing, since Sibyl would be buried by then, and not at the house, so he could always force John to flee with him.

They were seated in the front row of pews, Sibyl's siblings on the other side of the aisle. William sat at the end beside the aisle, with Mycroft on his left, and Angela beside him. Sherlock had watched them, not overtly, trying to gauge what went on between them because it was better than listening to the droning minister invoke a god he didn't believe in and was fairly certain his mother hadn't, either.

But there was little in their body language to suggest anything, or at least anything he could read. Whatever passed between them as a relationship, they kept it from showing, sitting just far enough apart that it wasn't improper, not showing a divide between them, but not quite close enough to suggest any real depth of feeling.

Sherlock, on the other hand, was sitting between John on his right and Tricia on his left. He suspected there was some military name for this tactic. He had seen many family members evaluating Tricia and Angela, trying to determine who they were, and was reminded of Harry's funeral, in which Tricia was subjected to the same kind of questioning looks. She ignored them without appearing to be bothered by them, which he knew made some of the distant family members more irritated.

Angela ignored the glances as well, in a different way. Sherlock could see those distant relations pegging her as upper class and Tricia as not so, somehow, Angela won a more grudging acceptance. After all, she was obviously in her element. It made Sherlock want to roll his eyes. What did these idiots know? All of them would have judged his flat in London as a hovel, as something so far beneath him that he was obviously making some kind of Bohemian statement. None of them would understand wanting his life to be _his_.

He and John were not holding hands – outward displays of emotion were being frowned upon, even though it was a funeral, and Sherlock found this puzzling. But they were each sitting with one hand on a leg, Sherlock's right hand and John's left, so that the back of these hands were touching. Sherlock could feel the cool sensation of John's wedding ring against his own skin, and wondered how many people had noted the matching bands.

Tricia simply sat, observing the unspoken proscription against touching. She had, Sherlock remembered, put an arm around John at Harry's funeral, where that sort of thing appeared to have been allowed. It was enough that she was there, sitting calmly, listening intently – probably more intently than the rest of the family, he suspected darkly.

The whole thing seemed interminable, the service droning on, and Sherlock wished, perhaps for the first time, that he was like other people, and could simply shut his mind off and tune out. Ignore the meaningless words and the empty assurances and the bafflement over who had requested this type of service. His mind dissected everything, every phrase, every saying, every change in inflection.

And it was all dull, pointless, _wrong_.

This hadn't been his mother. She hadn't cared about these things, these petty beliefs, these vapid platitudes.

But what did it matter what she wanted, who she'd been? She was dead; her choices were gone. This wasn't about her. It was all about her. That thought chased itself round and round in his head, until he sucked in a deep but silent breath, slowly so as not to alert the doctors sitting on either side of him. He was suddenly too aware that was what they were. And they were already keeping a sharp eye on him as it was. What would they pick up on that he didn't want them to see? It was maddening, trying to figure that out.

He was relieved when the minister stopped speaking, but only momentarily. There had a been a brief hope that was it, but no, he remembered Harry's funeral, and John had then given the eulogy. He wasn't doing this, nor was his father or Mycroft, but Sibyl's sister, Adele.

Sherlock had not seen her since he had been about seventeen, shortly before he'd gone to university. If he recalled correctly, she had three children of her own: two girls and a boy, whose names Sherlock couldn't remember, nor did he really care to, but somehow, fishing for those memories became important when he fixed his gaze on his aunt and tried not to listen to her speak.

She looked enough like her late sister for the resemblance to be noticeable, but she _sounded_ like Sibyl. The pitch of the voice was the same, the cadence of the speech, the inflections in the words.

It was like listening to a long forgotten melody and suddenly recalling all of the notes, able to carry the tune effortlessly. Like hearing faint strains of music from somewhere far away, carried on the breeze, teasing the ears, coming and going as the wind changed. Her laugh would even be so similar as to be called the same, he knew.

What were his cousins' names? He tried desperately to remember, for something else to do.

"_Look, Sherlock, I have something for you."_

"_What is it, Mummy?"_

_She had something on the high table in the library, and he was too small to see over the edge properly, but it was some kind of case, oddly shaped, oddly patterned, not smooth leather like Father's briefcase, not clean, rectangular lines. Flowing, curving, on the sides and on the top. He could see polished silver latches gleaming in the faint lamp light, reflecting dully off the polished mahogany surface of the table._

"_Climb up," she said and he scrambled into a chair, slowing down somewhat at the look she gave him, which warned him to be careful. He still had a scab on his elbow and a bruise on his shoulder from falling off of a chair the previous week, but they didn't hurt, not really, not unless someone bumped them or he scratched them._

_The case was thinner at one end than the other, still all graceful curves and rounded edges._

_His eyes lit up._

_Mummy clicked open the latches and opened the case carefully, slowly, oh too slowly, because he could see the gleam of polished wood inside, a different colour than the table, lighter, almost more orange, and the taut strings that stretched across the instrument._

_She smiled at him then, lifting the small violin out with both hands, holding it easily, through years of practice and use and habit._

"_It's–" he started to say, but ran out of words, out of air, almost out of belief. It couldn't be _real_, no, no, he was dreaming, but such a beautiful dream, and when he held out one hand, hesitantly, to touch it, it didn't vanish, wasn't made of smoke, and he didn't wake up._

_He'd wanted one for _so long_. Wanted it so much he could taste it, wanted to teach his hands, his ears, his mind, to make the kind of music his mother could, to take an instrument of wood and stranded steel and gold plating and horse hair and bring something to life, make someone feel a spring rainstorm in the dead of winter, make someone hear joy composed through deafness, make someone see dancers whirling in white and silver and lights._

_It was beautiful._

_It was perfect._

"_It's yours," Mummy said. "It's the right size for you right now, and when you grow, you'll get a new one. But you must keep practicing to earn that."_

_He wanted to jump up and kiss her, but she was holding the perfect violin and he knew_, he knew_, he must be careful, so careful, more careful with this than with anything. This wasn't like Mycroft's books or chemistry set or Father's wine cellars – oh he'd been sent to his room for a week after breaking open a bottle of something called Château Latour from 1947, which was _so old_, why did they even care, to see if the liquid would light on fire if he put a match to it._

_No, this was his. His alone._

_He reached out. Instead of pulling it away, Mummy gave it to him, gently, carefully. Sherlock just held it, staring at it, then up at her._

"_I want to learn to play it," he said, trying not to shake, he was so excited._

"_And you will," she said. "Put it back in its case and come with me."_

_She smiled at him, grey eyes bright._

"_Why don't we begin right now?"_

He realized he was holding John's hand so tightly now that his knuckles were white. John was squeezing back, almost as hard.

But he had it wrong, he didn't understand that Sherlock hadn't heard a word of what Adele had said. Had barely even heard her voice once the memory of the violin, his first violin, had leapt out of nowhere.

But it didn't matter, it didn't _matter_, he told himself, because that was in the past, it wasn't happening now.

He took another deep breath and loosened his grip on John's hand with an incredible amount of effort. Why was it so difficult to do this? It wasn't as though he was in danger of losing John, as though they didn't touch all of the time when they were at home, as though this was unfamiliar.

_Let go_, he instructed his reluctant fingers and was able to ease his hold, but not release John altogether. He steadied his breathing, but felt the pulse in his neck jumping too quickly and focused on slowing his heart rate as well.

This wouldn't do. There were too many people here he didn't know. His mother was dead and he was surrounded by strangers. It seemed suffocating, unreal.

_Stop this_, he ordered himself. Remembering the breathing technique John had taught him once, Sherlock focused on counting ten seconds for each inhalation, ten for each exhalation, keeping deliberate count, slowly and carefully, in order to keep everything else out.

He did this so many times he lost track, switching from English to French to German to keep himself focused. It bore him through the rest of the funeral and the burial – where again it was too sunny, the breeze was too lively and fresh, the air was filled with too many heady scents, especially the smell of the soil, which was particularly concentrated because it was spring, and the flowers that would be placed on the grave, like brilliant, perfumed offerings to someone who could no longer care. Why hadn't any of these people sent flowers to his mother when she'd been alive?

It bore him through the wake as well, more of a reception, really, through strangers who were seemingly related to him shaking his hand, offering their condolences. Through John's dark eyes keeping a sharp watch on him, like he was some recovering patient who was overdoing himself. Through too many glasses of wine, somehow, he was certain he'd never even taken one, but there was one in his hand. Equally certain he'd drunk some of it, but the level of the liquid never changed, so how could it be too many? He had not refilled it, nor had John or Tricia, because neither of them had left his side, but when he looked around to try and establish who had done so, he could not.

And finally, _finally_, they were permitted to leave. They had fulfilled whatever unspoken, unwritten, invisible social contract there was regarding family and the funeral and everyone deemed it proper that they could go. Who were these people to decide for him, when his own decision would have been to leave so much earlier? What rules were they following and why? Surely it should be their choice?

It seemed not.

Back at the manor, Sherlock went straight to their rooms without a word to anyone, John following him after a few brief words with Tricia and Mycroft that Sherlock didn't even attempt to overhear. He sat down in one of the chairs near the terrace doors after opening the doors a crack to admit some fresh air. He breathed in the silence, the utter silence, and relaxed, leaning his head back, closing his eyes.

He wished he had a cigarette.

He rubbed his lips against the craving, as if this would help, and tried to ignore it. _No more_, he told himself, wishing again he had some patches, that he'd thought to ask one of the staff to get some for him. He knew that one cigarette now would lead to several and more tomorrow and the day after until he had to start the whole blasted quitting cycle all over again.

He looked up when John came in and wondered why he hadn't noticed how exhausted his husband looked. There were the faint smudges of dark circles around John's eyes, a paler and more drawn look to his face. Even his normally bright eyes seemed dimmer, not just sadness, fatigue.

"You should sleep," Sherlock said.

John gave a wry half-chuckle, his lips twitching briefly.

"So should you," he said.

"No," Sherlock said, pushing himself to his feet. "There's something I need to do. I'll be back soon."

John held his position by the door as Sherlock crossed the room, looking weary but also somewhat apprehensive, which made him in turn look more weary, as if this was draining the last of his energy from him.

"Sherlock– what? You're not going to do something stupid, are you?"

Sherlock stopped next to him, looking down, then leant over quickly and gave John a light kiss, surprising him, he could tell.

"No, John, I need to find something in the attics. Go to sleep. I'll be back soon."

John regarded him for a moment, as if unsure whether or not to believe him, but then nodded, putting a hand on Sherlock's chest, over his heart, as if to reassure himself that it was still beating. Sherlock gave him a puzzled look but John just shook his head.

"Go," he said. "I'll be awake when you get back."

But it took Sherlock almost two hours to find what he was looking for in the mess of rambling attics that topped the house, that had become the repository for all of the possessions through generations that were no longer used but had not actually lost their usefulness. Everything was stored here, in anticipation of some future Holmes' need for it, from children's toys and clothing to old books to a carefully covered grand piano to sailing equipment and riding saddles. He knew he'd seen _it_ up here as well, but it had been about ten years since he had, and he could not quite recall the location.

But he did find it, pulling the small black case from behind a jumble of boxes, blowing on the dust that covered it ineffectively, then giving up and smearing most of it away with one hand. He took the small instrument back to their rooms, where John had fallen asleep, probably without intending it. Sherlock closed the bedroom door softly so as not to disturb his husband, who really needed the sleep, and sat down, putting the violin case on the low coffee table in front of him. Then he fetched a towel from the bathroom, moving silently, and cleaned the dust off before opening the case slowly.

It was inside, still precisely as he remembered it, but much smaller, of course. He'd received this when he was five, so it was sized for a small child, and he was an unusually tall man now.

He cleaned the violin carefully, as best he could without the proper equipment, and evaluated the strings. They'd probably need to be replaced before it could be played, but that was fine, he had the time and the money.

Of course, he couldn't play it now – it was too small – but he knew someone almost the right age and size for it.


	9. Chapter 9

They returned to London the following day, although Sherlock could tell that John wanted them to stay for William's sake. But he said nothing, agreeing with a silent nod to Sherlock's request. Tricia went with them on the train, but the ride was quiet, all of them keeping their silences, Sherlock watching the countryside blur past outside the window as it gave way to the encroaching suburbs and finally, finally, London again.

It was such a relief to be encompassed by the city once more that it was almost a physical sensation, like finding safety behind thick walls. He breathed a sigh as the train arrived at the station and they disembarked at Marylebone into a mess of commuters and station employees and tourists. There was no one there he knew, no one who had any immediate expectations of him, no one to extend their useless sympathies and expect commiseration in return.

They split a cab home with Tricia, being dropped off first at Baker Street, and she bid them good-bye, promising to ring the next day. John thanked her and shut the cab door behind them as Sherlock unlocked the front door to their flat.

It was even better to be inside, locking the door again behind John. He listened, but the quality of the silence told them Mrs. Hudson wasn't home, and he actually felt guilty for being relieved about that, but he couldn't take her concern, having had more than his fill over the past several days. He felt John's presence was enough, just enough, perfect.

A small pile of post had been left for them on the table beside their flat door and Sherlock sorted absently through it while John took his overnight bag and Sherlock's into the bedroom. Most of it was unnecessary, junk, against which there seemed to be no defence. But there was a bill, which he put aside for John, who handled that sort of thing, and a card from Greece from Sam and Sandra, who were there on their honeymoon.

He put the rest of the post down and took the card into the kitchen, displacing the last postcard they'd received from a trip to Madrid that Tricia and Henry and Josephine had taken earlier in the year. John had started some habit, years ago, of putting whatever recent postcard they got on the fridge and moving the older ones to a drawer that had already gathered a healthy collection. Sherlock pinned the newest one in place with the small glass Union Jack magnet and then looked at the image. He had no idea what it was, one of those ubiquitous white-columned Grecian ruins, and he hadn't read the message on the back, but he left that for later.

He thought about making some tea, but even that seemed tedious at the moment, although he lingered in the kitchen, indecisive, for a few minutes. Then he sighed and crouched down, pulling open one of his equipment cupboards and dragging a few things out. John came in a few minutes later and gave him a look that Sherlock disregarded, then set himself to making lunch. Even though they'd left in the morning, with the train schedules and the trip and the taxi ride, it had just gone past noon. Sherlock ignored the sounds and smells of his husband cooking and the plate of food that was deposited in front of him. He had eaten that morning at his parents'– father's house and it was enough to get him through until dinner, if not until the next day. He felt no desire to eat, either, so kept working until John finished eating and eventually tidied the plate away, packaging up the leftovers for later.

John paused on his way out of the kitchen, stopping to press a kiss against the top of Sherlock's head and Sherlock let him, halting his work for a moment. John moved away , going to do whatever it is he did when Sherlock was working. He could hear his husband moving about the flat, but it was easier to ignore now, to work with the faint background sounds, the creaks in the floorboards that told him where John was, the gentle rattle or shuffle as he moved something, the flat door opening and his steps receding down the stairs for a few minutes while he put in some laundry.

These were ordinary, everyday sounds that were part of his life, that were normal. The click of the door shutting and the thunk as the deadbolt was thrown home again told him John was back, but it was easy not to get distracted, to keep working.

It was so much easier to breathe here.

He could focus, really focus, on what he was doing, and it was effortless, so much so that he felt light, as though he'd been wearing a weighted suit for the past few days that had suddenly been removed. Sherlock felt the tightness in his lungs evaporate, all the tension was suddenly gone and it was so much of a relief it almost made him lightheaded, but he was able to concentrate despite this as well.

Here, it was just him and John. No complications from his brother and Angela, from his father, from the staff, even from Tricia. No distant relatives with their schemes or sympathies. No obligations other than to himself and his husband, which he barely considered obligations anymore. No dreading dinner in silence, no rows with John, no unnecessary social responsibilities.

Nothing but his own life.

No memories, either.

It felt almost – _good_.

He allowed himself a small smile and kept working. At some point, John went to change over the laundry and Sherlock heard the front door opening and Mrs. Hudson coming in. He hoped she wouldn't come upstairs, that John would hold her off, because he suddenly felt that constricted feeling again and looked up, instinctively searching for an escape route. He felt his heart rate pick up and reprimanded himself silently – was he afraid of his landlady? Hardly.

But John kept her away for the time being and Sherlock felt something ease inside of him when John came back and locked the door behind him again. Sherlock got up and sorted through his equipment and supplies, then, not finding what he needed, went to the upstairs bedroom to root about in the closet where he stored whatever he could not keep in the kitchen.

He went back downstairs and kept working as the day slid past. At one point, John put a glass of water pointedly on the table and Sherlock drank it, out of a desire not to start another row more than out of actual thirst.

Then John made dinner and forcibly stopped Sherlock working and the momentum was lost, the sense of balance was tipped and it was almost startling. He blinked when John put a plate right in front of him, requiring him to dislodge what he was working on in order to save the Petri dishes from being crushed.

"I was working!" Sherlock snapped.

"And now you're eating," John replied. Sherlock was taken aback by the sharp tone in John's voice, the impatience in his face. Had he been like this all day? Sherlock hadn't noticed. He'd seemed content to putter around the flat, doing whatever it was he'd been doing.

"I'm not hungry," Sherlock replied, reasonably.

John closed his eyes for a moment and sighed.

"Please just eat," he said in a tired voice.

Sherlock blinked, considered arguing, but something about the weariness in John's expression made him reconsider. He hesitated out of habit, but then put the work aside and ate slowly. John sat down with him, picking at his food, eating almost mechanically.

_If he's not hungry, why bother cooking?_ Sherlock wondered, but sometimes John remained a mystery. It was one of the best things about him. And the most infuriating.

John did the washing up when they'd finished eating, having done so in silence, which was far too reminiscent of the recent dinners they'd endured. Sherlock began to feel edgy again and returned to work quickly, but he'd lost the pace he'd settled into and it was harder to concentrate now, and the noises John was making as he did the dishes seemed too loud, too abrupt. Sherlock felt out of sorts, almost clumsy, and had to focus harder on what he was doing, paying attention to the small movements to avoid dropping and breaking anything.

After some time, he realized he needed something else from upstairs and left the kitchen. John was reading in the living room but stood immediately when Sherlock came in, intercepting him, blocking his path.

"John–" Sherlock started but was cut off when John reached up and wrapped a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, pulling him into a kiss. Sherlock started, but John didn't let go, and there was nothing tender about this – he could feel, almost taste, the greed, the want.

It took a second for the same to flare in him.

When it did, it was so strong it made his legs weak and he grabbed John, in part to pull him closer, in part to keep himself standing. John's other hand fisted into his shirt and Sherlock didn't care that it was silk and could be ruined, didn't care that John's fingers dug through the fabric into his skin.

John made a small noise that went straight down Sherlock's spine and he realized, dimly, that his hands were already unbuttoning John's shirt. He pulled out of the kiss a moment to breathe and John growled, the sound almost shocking, but Sherlock was given no opportunity to adjust because John had his lips again, his tongue pushing demandingly into Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock dropped John's shirt to the floor and felt John tug his free of his trousers on one side, his warm hand sliding up along Sherlock's skin. Sherlock tried to step toward the bedroom, to pull John after him, but John growled again, the sound reverberating through Sherlock as he swallowed it, their mouths still locked.

"We should–" Sherlock managed, gesturing to the bedroom.

"Here's fine," John replied in a low, rumbly voice.

"We'll need–"

John cut him off again by yanking something from the pocket of his jeans and pressing it into Sherlock's palm. The detective was startled – how long had John been waiting for him, for this, that he'd thought to have a small tube of lube on him?

The thought was immediately banished when John began unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt swiftly, his lips following the trail of his fingers.

"Oh, all right," Sherlock murmured in reply to John's choice of location and let himself be pulled down to the floor, vaguely realizing that Mrs. Hudson was still home and that John, for once, did not seem to care.

* * *

><p>John did relocate them to the bedroom, eventually, apparently for the express purposes of pinning Sherlock into the bed by falling asleep all over him. He was half draped across Sherlock's chest, his head on Sherlock's left shoulder, which was somewhat awkward, since he was sleeping in his normal place on Sherlock's right side. He had one leg wrapped over Sherlock's right one, and his right arm wrapped over Sherlock's body, so that all that remained free where Sherlock's left hand and most of his left leg.<p>

It would have been incredibly uncomfortable, if it hadn't been John, and if it hadn't been warm. He wondered how John had fallen asleep like that, but he had, slowly, listening as Sherlock fell asleep as well.

He'd never been good at realizing when Sherlock was feigning sleep. Ever since their first night together, Sherlock had learned that John, despite being a doctor, was terrible at figuring out if he was sleeping or simply pretending. Sherlock, on the other hand, never failed to deduce when John was really awake.

So he let John think he'd drifted off to sleep when he really hadn't, and the doctor succumbed to it as well, his body, which had been relaxed enough after their shagging, relaxing even more. Sherlock could feel John's breath against his skin, slowing down, getting deeper. He could feel John's steady heart beat and the sound lulled him but he fought it, because he did not really want to sleep.

He wasn't tired, but let John sleep for awhile, falling deeper and deeper into slumber, knowing John needed it, that he was feeling the effects of the past few days. John had always been much more reliant on a regular sleep schedule, which was baffling. Hadn't he been an army doctor? Shouldn't he be used to an erratic sleep pattern?

Sherlock waited until John was fast asleep then slowly eased himself out from under his husband, taking his time, even if it was tedious, because if John woke up, he wouldn't let Sherlock get out of bed. And probably not in a good way, either. He'd just insist Sherlock really sleep, which wasn't necessary.

He got John on his back finally, sleeping on his side of the bed, and placed a light kiss on his forehead before rising and finding a pair of pyjamas and slipping into them. Sherlock padded silently back into the darkened living room and stood for awhile, listening to the sounds of London, the faint traffic, the distant cry of sirens.

It was not even all that late, although the sun had set, and he suspected John was out for the night. He got himself a glass of water and sat down on the sofa, sipping it slowly, just listening.

The silence grew.

The sounds from outside faded and Sherlock began to feel uncomfortable, his grip tightening on the glass. _No_, he told himself, shaking his head once, but the pressure, that sense of heaviness, that edginess he'd been feeling since he left London was creeping in again, pushing in on him despite his efforts to hold it back.

He drained the rest of the water, but it didn't help.

He was at _home_, he reminded himself. He was fine. This was where he belonged, back in London, back in the flat, back alone with John, and tomorrow he could go back to the work, to the morgue, to ring Lestrade to see if he'd missed anything interesting.

Everything was normal.

Everything had changed.

_Stop it, stop it_, he said, shifting his position on the sofa. This was unproductive and unnecessary and pointless. Everything was done, over with, taken care of, resolved. Life went on. That was how life worked. It ended for individuals but continued – relentlessly – for everyone else. There was nothing more for him to do except what he'd always done, which was precisely what he intended to do.

_No more of this nonsense_, he told himself firmly. It was time for his mind to behave.

_He woke up on the sofa._

_He was still so groggy every time he woke up, dizzy and nauseous, from the damned concussion and the damned Percocet that John made him take this time. It wasn't as though he needed it; ibuprofen would be enough._

_But no, John was being Doctor John and insisting and Sherlock hadn't the strength to refuse, even though he wanted to. Two concussions in the space of two weeks had made it hard to string a coherent thought together at first and John always caught him when the mood swings were bad, not making him snappy, but making him lethargic._

_He hated sleeping this much._

_He felt fine, he really did, except when he tried to do anything too strenuous, like move or breathe._

_Sherlock rolled carefully onto his back, covering his eyes with his hand against the light that still seemed too bright even now, three days later. Without him intending it at all, a groan slipped past his lips and he tried to bite down on it, but too late. His lips were dry, chapped, he thought, which was uncomfortable. The Percocet made him nauseous enough sometimes to throw up, which made him dehydrated._

_Who had thought this was a good drug to prescribe to a head injury patient who already had nausea, dizziness, and mood swings?_

Probably thought it wouldn't make much difference, then_, he told himself and almost smiled, his lips twitching._

_John would have heard him and would be getting a glass of water and yes, there was the kitchen tap running then stopping and footsteps._

_But that wasn't John._

_Wasn't Tricia, either, nor Mrs. Hudson, nor Mycroft, nor Sam._

Who?_ Sherlock thought, then swung into irritation that he couldn't identify the person bringing him the water and why on Earth had John thought it was a good idea to leave him with someone he didn't know immediately upon waking and where was John anyhow? What gave him the right to leave?_

_He was the one who had insisted on the trip to the hospital this time around, and was the one insisting on the Percocet. He should be here, taking care of Sherlock._

_He forced his eyes open, but, the moment before he did so, he felt a light hand on his head, carefully avoiding the healing wound, and realized who it was._

"_Mum?" he asked, his voice thick with sleep and the effects of the concussions, laced with disbelief._

"_Hello, darling," she said and he felt a pair of warm lips press gently on his forehead for a moment then withdraw. Sherlock managed to move his hand from his eyes and something cool and smooth was pressed into it, a glass of water. He sipped it slowly, feeling her steadying it for him, taking his time to avoid any sudden nausea._

"_How are you feeling?" she asked and he managed to focus on her, although his vision was blurry from the injuries and the Percocet, but only somewhat. She was crouched down next to the sofa, expression concerned, grey eyes bright. Her hair, so brilliantly white, so unlike the dark hair he remembered her having when she'd been younger, was swept elegantly off of her face._

_There was a chair beside the sofa, he noted. But she hadn't just moved it, or he would have heard it. She had been there awhile, watching him sleep._

"_Fine, Mum," he assured her, to which the corners of her mouth twitched, slightly, and her eyes glinted with a wry look. "Why are you here?"_

"_John called me."_

"_Why did John call you?"_

"_Because you were attacked and you have another concussion. He thought I might be concerned. He was right."_

_Sherlock wrinkled his nose; John was such a _doctor_ sometimes. And he had an irritating habit of combining that with being such a _husband_._

"_I'm fine," he repeated._

_She sighed, expression shifting to exasperation._

"_You are not fine, Sherlock. Two concussions in as many weeks. This is going to be the death of you."_

"_Hardly," he replied. "Besides, they were unrelated."_

"_I know that," Sibyl answered. "But you need to take better care of yourself."_

"_I'm scarcely to blame for someone in a pub launching a poorly-aimed beer mug at me. Nor for a someone attacking me in a symphony hall. "_

_Sibyl reclaimed her chair, watching him with strained patience._

"_Honestly, Mum, it will get better," he said, ignoring the flare of nausea, because the damned painkillers had no say in what his body was going to do. "John says so, Tricia says so, the doctors at the blasted hospital said so. I'll be fine."_

_She was silent for a moment, then shook her head._

"_Oh, Sherlock, you have no idea," she sighed, "how much you make me worry."_

"_I can take care of myself," he retorted. "I'm not a child."_

_She reached out, taking one of his hands, then leaned forward, pressing another kiss against his forehead, this one lingering a moment longer._

"_No, darling, but you are _my_ child."_

John was standing in front of him.

He was cold, all over, except his face, which was inexplicably hot. His eyes felt hotter, raw, dry while at the same time wet. He felt his lips tremble against his index fingers. His hands were in prayer pose, index fingers against his lips, middle fingers pressed against his nose.

The backs of his hands were wet. Unevenly. It made no sense.

His face, too, felt wet. But in patches. There were small, tight areas in his skin where it felt like something had dried in place, sucking out all of the moisture, leaving salt behind.

John was blurred for a moment.

He crouched down as Sherlock blinked and something cold and hot traced down his cheeks and John was in better focus. Then blurred again.

John reached out, gently, brushing his thumbs under Sherlock's eyes. The sensation of wetness changed, spreading out behind John's touch, being swept away. Sherlock closed his eyes and felt John repeat the action, so lightly, so carefully.

His lungs hurt, his chest hurt. Breathing was hard, shaky, constricted.

He opened his eyes again and everything was out of focus for another moment, then John's brown eyes were watching him, concerned, dark, caring, evaluating him carefully but not clinically.

Crying.

He was crying.

He couldn't remember the last time he'd done so.

John wrapped his hands over Sherlock's, holding them lightly, covering them in warmth.

Sherlock managed a breath, pressing his lips together, feeling his hands trembling where his palms and fingers touched.

"It's all right," John murmured.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment, feeling his own breath against his hands, feeling a tear drop onto one of his fingers, slipping down over his skin onto John's. He opened his eyes again, this time unsurprised by the blurriness, unable to blink it away.

"Oh, John, I miss her."

John nodded, touching his cheek.

"I know you do, Sherlock. I know you do."

John moved a hand, resting it lightly on the back of Sherlock's head, weaving his fingers into Sherlock's dark hair. Sherlock lowered his head onto his husband's chest, John keeping him in the embrace, let out an unsteady breath, and closed his eyes.


End file.
